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FANTASTIC, Vol. 7, No. 2, February 1958, is published monthly by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company,
William B. Ziff, Chairman of the Board (1946-1953), at 64 E. Lake St., Chicago 1, Illinois. Entered
as second-class matter at Post Office at Chicago, III. Subscription rates: U. S. and possessions and
Canada $4.00 for 12 issues; Pan American Union Countries $4.50; all other foreign countries $5.00.
BY THE EDITOR
• There’s only one thing wrong with this issue. We’re very
much afraid that once you sit down with it, you’ll read it from
cover to cover in one sitting. Thus, you may miss an important
appointment or come in late for work or show up for dinner
after everything’s cold. We don’t want any of these things to
happen, but at the same time we don’t want you to miss the
thrills you’ll find in these pages. For instance:
John Van Akin smiled when he murdered his wife. He
smiled when they put him on trial. And when they sentenced
him to death, his grin fairly dazzled the courtroom. And he
wasn’t insane, either. You’ll find out what The Jewel of Ec¬
stasy had to do with all this.
And. then there’s the gal next door whose most private and
personal moments were revealed in gorgeous color on the TV
set of our hero in I Married A Martian. With phenomena of
this type going on, was any gal safe?
And you’ll probably read A . Code For Unbelievers more
than once. We hope you do, because there’s a great truth hid¬
den deep behind the fiction in this story; a truth we guarantee
will be of great value to you if you dig it out and make it
your own.
Don’t overlook Earth Specimen, either. This is the story of
one man saving the world from outerspace invaders through
the medium of love; but love manifested in as novel a manner
as we’ve ever heard of.
These are only a few of the stories that add up to just about
the best issue of Fantastic that’s hit the stands for many a
moon. Happy reading! — pwf
3
1958
fantastic
REG. U. S. PAT. OFF.
ZIFF-DAVIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
William B. Ziff (1898-1953) Founder
FICTION
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
By Henry Slesar...
MR. FENBLEY'S NUDES
By Wilson Kane.
Now-See How to Save Hundreds of Dollars,
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COMING SOON-Reserve Your Copy Today at Your
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Ziff-Davis Publishing Co., 64 E. Lake Street, Chicago 1, III.
JEWEL OF
ECSTASY
By HENRY SLESAR
ILLUSTRATOR: FINLAY
What was the secret of the
jewel that sharpened men’s
senses to a point where
ecstasy itself became
unbearable?
T HE pocketsignal buzzed in
the middle of the kiss that
Ray Collier was bestowing on
his fiancee, and Leona’s eyes
went mischievous at the
sound.
“Lieutenant,” she said
archly. “Your mother’s call¬
ing you.”
Ray swore and turned off
the instrument, clipped like a
fountain pen to the pocket of
his suit. He got up from the
sofa and walked to the tele¬
phone. Then he dialed the
number of police headquar¬
ters savagely.
“Collier checking in. Who
wants me?”
“One sec. Lieutenant. In-
The scene was set.
spector Charbis beepin’ you.”
There was a click, and Char¬
bis came on, growling like an
old lion. “Collier? Where the
hell are you?”
“Off duty, that’s where.
What’s up?”
“Don't sound so snappish
with me, lover boy. I know
you’re smooching with that
doll of yours someplace, but
this is important. We got a
540 from River Hill about an
hour ago, and the patrol car
reports the victim as Mrs.
John Van Akin. I thought
you’d go for the idea of a so¬
ciety-type murder.”
“Van Akin?” Ray’s voice
lost all its disgruntledness.
“You mean the millionaire?”
“Right you are. Interplan¬
etary’s number one boy. His
wife was shot and killed
about two hours ago, accord¬
ing to the coroner, and Van
Akin himself has disappeared.
Now I figured that since
you’ll be marrying into so¬
ciety in a few months—”
“Cut out the funny stuff,
Inspector. Who’s on the
case ?”
“I sent Harrigan on detail,
but I'm willing to put you in
charge. If you’re interested.”
Lieutenant Ray Collier was
about to say an automatic yes,
when he remembered the
broken embrace on the sofa.
He turned to look at Leona,
curled up kittenishly and
watching him with question¬
ing violet eyes. It wasn’t easy
to look at Leona Adams and
think of anything else but
Leona. She was tall and lithe,
but without a hint of angular¬
ity in her long body. Her
blonde hair cascaded in a soft,
unbroken wave to her shoul¬
ders, and her full lips seemed
to be trembling at the mem¬
ory of the uncompleted kiss.
In three months, Leona
would be Ray’s bride, and the
lieutenant was still puzzling
over the miracle that made
her want a cop for a husband.
“I don’t know if I am in¬
terested,” he said hesitantly.
“Well, it’s up to you, pal. I
told Harrigan to stay put if
you didn’t show. I’m sure he
can handle it fine.”
“Harrigan? That banana¬
fingered idiot?”
“Nothing wrong with Har¬
rigan,” the inspector growl¬
ed. “But if you’re so upset
about it, get on the job your¬
self.”
The phone clicked, and Ray
dropped the receiver back
with a bang. He returned to
the sofa and tried to resume
where he was interrupted,
but Leona shifted away from
him coquettishly.
“What’s the matter?”
“What do you think, dar-
8
FANTASTIC
ling? I want your mind on
me, too.”
“I’m sorry, Leona. It was a
murder call—”
“So I gathered. Who was
killed did he say?”
The lieutenant sighed and
sat up, pushing back his un¬
ruly black hair. He was a
young man, but gray hairs
were already peppering the
dark strands. “Somebody you
might know. Somebody right
out of your own social set. A
Mrs. Van Akin.”
Leona gasped. “You’re
joking! You don’t mean the
Mrs. Van Akin? John Van
Akin’s wife?”
“That’s what I said. She
was shot and killed in their
apartment about an hour ago.
The inspector wants me to
take a look, but I said no.”
“I didn’t hear you say no.”
“Well, that’s what I
meant.”
“Did you, Ray?”
He looked at her, and his
face relaxed with a grin.
“Why do you put up with
me, Leona? I’m poor, I’m
mean, and I’m a cop inside
and out. What the hell makes
you want to marry a bum like
me?”
She put a finger on his lips.
“Because you’re so wickedly
handsome. And also because
you’ve got holes in your socks.
And because you’re just inde¬
pendent enough to walk out
on me now and go poking
around murder cases. Aren’t
you?”
The grin widened. “You’re
a mirage. You’re going to
vanish, bing! just before the
wedding. You’re too good to
be true, Leona.” He tried to
put his arms around her, but
she pushed him away.
“Better hurry, Lieutenant.
Before the corpse gets cold.”
Harrigan was directing
things at the Van Akin apart¬
ment with an effective kind of
brute authority. He nodded
at the lieutenant when Ray
came on the scene, and filled
him in on the details.
“Elevator operator heard
the shot,” he said. “He went
up to investigate and meets
old Van Akin himself, look¬
ing flustered and grinning like
a cat. He asked him if every¬
thing’s okay, and Van Akin
says everything’s fine.”
“That’s funny,” Ray said.
“Funny is right. Anyway,
Van Akin goes downstairs
and hails himself a taxi. The
elevator guy says he was
carrying a black satchel,
looked like a doctor’s bag.
For some reason, the opera¬
tor wasn’t so sure everything
was fine, so he goes back up.
The door to the Van Akin
apartment was not latched.
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
He went inside, and this is
what he saw.”
Ray looked. The main room
of the Van Akin residence
was the size of a small rail¬
road terminal. The body was
midway between two enor¬
mous sectional sofas, and the
blood that had left the gaping
wound in the woman’s side
formed a damp red smudge
that clashed unpleasantly
with the pastel decor. She
was a small, plump woman,
with carefully-coiffed gray
hair. The diamonds glinted
everywhere on her throat and
wrists. She was like some¬
body’s mother, only richer.
“Then nobody else came to
the apartment?” Ray said.
“No other visitors?”
“Nobody all day,” Harri-
gan answered, his big, home¬
ly face twisting grimly. “So
you know where that leaves
us.”
“It’s hard to believe. Van
Akin wasn’t the type to shoot
his wife and walk out with a
smile. Head of the biggest
space-freighter company in
the country—”
“It’s a screwy one, all
right.”
Ray talked to the elevator
operator, and repeated the
substance of Harrigan’s re¬
port.
“And this thing you said
about Van Akin. This look he
had—”
“Yeah.” The operator went
wide-eyed. “Grinning, just
like he hit the daily double or
somethin’. Never saw the old
pot looking so happy.”
“And you didn’t hear the
address he gave the cabbie?”
“Nope.”
Ray frowned and turned
to Harrigan. “We don’t have
any choice. Put out an all-
state for Van Akin, and
check all the hack listings.
Just for questioning, remem¬
ber ; we can’t make an arrest
until we’re sure.”
The telephone tinkled dis¬
creetly in the foyer, and Ray
took the call. It was a pre¬
cinct sergeant, and his brief
conversation electrified the
lieutenant. He slammed down
the phone and said:
“Hold everything. They
just got a call at the station
from a guy named Clay Buck-
nam, a pal of Van Akin’s. Do
you know him?”
Harrigan shrugged, but the
elevator man said: “Sure, I
know Mr. Bucknam. He was
Van Akin’s lawyer; he was
always cornin’ up here for
dinner and stuff. They used
to play billiards or something
together.”
Ray said: “Well, it wasn’t
much of a friendship. Buck¬
nam called to report that Van
10
FANTASTIC
Akin was at his apartment,
and had just confessed to
murdering his wife.”
“What?” Harrigan’s mouth
dropped.
“He was calling secretly
from the bedroom. He wanted
the police to get over there
and pick him up.”
“What are we waiting
for?”
“It may be a false alarm.
You stay here; I’ll take a cou¬
ple of the boys and investi¬
gate.”
Harrigan pouted. “What’s
the matter, Collier? Can’t you
let me make one arrest?”
Ray Collier and his depu¬
ties burst into the Bucknam
penthouse on Central Park
South twenty minutes later.
They found the millionaire
Van Akin, a stoutish man in
his late fifties, having a cock¬
tail with Clay Bucknam, legal
counselor for Interplanetary
Services Corporation, the
firm which Van Akin headed.
The millionaire’s round face
looked startled at the en¬
trance of the police; then the
small mouth twisted in an an¬
gry snarl. He fought savage¬
ly when the blue-sleeved arms
grasped his wrists, and he
spat out words of violence
and vengeance in the direc¬
tion of the friend who had
betrayed him.
“Take him in,” Ray said to
the officers. “I want to talk to
Mr. Bucknam here.”
Bucknam bowed slightly in
the lieutenant’s direction. He
was a slight, dapper man,
who took good care of him¬
self. His thin face was hot-
lamp treated, and his waxy-
white hair and moustache
were carefully trimmed. He
watched the police carry off
the shrieking Van Akin with
a vaguely amused expression.
Ray watched his face intent¬
ly, chilled by the lawyer’s
cold-blooded disavowal of
friendship.
“All right,” Ray said when
they were alone. “Let’s hear
what happened, Mr. Buck¬
nam.”
“There’s not much to tell.
John rang my doorbell about
an hour ago, and I let him
in. - He was looking rather
strange—”
“Grinning? Like a cat?”
“Not an imaginative de¬
scription, but fairly accurate.
I asked him if everything was
all right, and he said yes. We
had a martini, and he finally
told me what had happened.”
“Which was?”
“He said that he had killed
Vera; that’s his wife. He said
they had had some kind of
quarrel, and he’d lost his
head and shot her. He was
afraid to go to the police, so
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
11
he came here. I’m his lawyer,
you know; not just the com¬
pany’s attorney.”
“Did he say what the argu¬
ment was about?”
“No.” Bucknam smiled
thinly. “I could guess, how¬
ever. John was fifty-seven,
and entering a . . . romantic
phase.”
“You mean there was a
woman?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. At
any rate, I excused myself
when he gave me this rather
startling information, and
went into the bedroom to call
the police. And that’s all there
is to it. Naturally, I’m shock¬
ed about the whole thing. It’s
real messy business.”
“Naturally,” Ray said dri¬
ly. He stood up, “I’m afraid
this won’t be the last time I
have to question you, Mr.
Bucknam. We’ll need a state¬
ment from you at headquar¬
ters.”
“Quite all right,” the law¬
yer said.
Ray went to the door, but
paused with his hand on the
knob.
“One more thing. What
happened to the black bag
Van Akin was carrying?”
“Bag?” John wasn’t carry¬
ing anything.”
“The elevator man at the
apartment house said he was.
Of course, he might have got-
12
ten rid of it before coming
here.”
“That’s what he must have
done; he was empty-handed
when he arrived. Perhaps the
murder weapon was—
“Yes,” Ray said, cutting
him off abruptly. “All right
then, Mr. Bucknam. Thanks
for your help, and you’ll be
hearing from us.”
“My pleasure, Lieutenant,”
Clay Bucknam said, and from
the satisfied look on his face,
it obviously was.
The trial of John Van
Akin was the delight of the
newspaper - reading public,
wearied by constant headlines
of space exploration and high-
level political gambits and all
the other impersonal jtems of
pith and moment which filled
the columns. But they were
disappointed in one way. The
trial itself was brief, lasting
less than four days. Van
Akin refused counsel, despite
the fact that his money could
have brought the best legal
brains of the country into his
courtroom. And when faced
by the judge’s solemn open¬
ing question, Van Akin
smiled contentedly and an¬
swered :
“Guilty.”
His own testimony was to
the point.
“Yes, I killed Vera. I shot
FANTASTIC
her with a pistol, on the night
of April Fourth. I killed her
because I was tired of her,
and because it seemed like the
right thing to do. That’s all I
have to say.”
And he smiled again, fold¬
ing his plump white hands
over his comfortable paunch,
looking out at the juryroom
audience as if expecting a
round of applause.
On the second day, the
judge asked for the report of
the state psychiatric board.
Their report was terse.
“The prisoner demonstrates
signs of megalomania, but
not to an extent that would
warrant his being called in¬
sane.”
And on the third day, the
verdict was:
“Guilty of murder in the
first degree.”
On the morning of the
fourth day, the judge said:
“John Van Akin, you have
been found guilty of murder
in the first degree. You are
hereby sentenced to be taken
to the State Prison at Ossin¬
ing, New York, where on a
date to be set by the prison
warden, you will be put to
death in the electric chair.”
John Van Akin merely
smiled.
To Lieutenant Ray Collier,
the Van Akin case might
have been another chore in a
long line of chores. But now
there was Leona, and Leona
made a difference in every¬
thing.
“Well, you can’t blame me
for being curious,” she said
one night, halting her stream
of questions. “I mean, most
of your cases involve dope-
peddlers and thugs, people
like that. But Van Akin—”
“I know,” Ray said sourly.
“He was society. So that
makes him interesting.”
“Well, I never really knew
the man. Father did, when he
was alive. But I do remember
Bucknam pretty well.”
“You do? You never men¬
tioned that before.”
“Didn’t I?” Leona looked
in the wall mirror and patted
her hair. “I haven’t seen him
in years, not since I was a
little girl. As a matter of fact,
I got an invitation from him
just the other day—”
“You what?”
She laughed. “Now don’t
get cross. But Bucknam’s
having a party on the fif¬
teenth, and he wants us to
come.”
“Us?”
“Of course, silly. He wrote
it on the invitation: ‘Please
bring Lieutenant Collier.’ I
think it was sort of nice of
him.”
“A heck of a time to be
13
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
giving a party. When his
pal’s sitting upstate, waiting
to get jolted into Hell. You
didn’t accept, did you?”
“Why not? I haven’t been
to a party in years.” She
turned from the mirror, and
her lovely mouth was pout¬
ing. “You’re not going to be
difficult about this, are you?
We talked it all over, remem¬
ber? You weren’t going to
give up your friends, and I
wasn’t going to give up
mine.”
“You don’t call Bucknam a
friend? If you could have seen
his face the day we caught
Van Akin—”
“It’s not Bucknam I mean.
There’ll be lots of people I
know at the party. People I’d
like you to meet. You will
come, won’t you, Ray?”
“What if I said no? Would
you go without me?”
Her eyes flashed suddenly.
“Of course!”
“Okay,” Ray grinned. “Just
wanted to see that old Adams
spirit. We’ll go, sweetheart.”
The night of the Bucknam
party was one of red-tinged
clouds and threatening rum¬
bles from the west. When the
taxi drew up before the apart¬
ment building, Ray Collier
tugged at his formal collar
and said: “Looks like we’re
in for a storm.”
“Who cares?” Leona laugh¬
ed, rustling out of the cab in
a swirl of crimson satin.
Ray took her arm as they
entered the elevator, marvel¬
ing at her striking beauty in
the formal gown. When they
entered Bucknam’s penthouse,
the stares of the assembled
guests proved that Ray wasn’t
the only one affected by
Leona Adams’ loveliness. The
room was already crowded
with the friends and asso¬
ciates of Clay Bucknam, and
judging from their careless
laughter and easy movements,
they remained unaffected by
the tragedy that had struck
in their midst.
Bucknam, looking supreme¬
ly well-tailored, came to greet
them at the door. His heavy-
lidded eyes were all for
Leona.
“Wonderful of you to.
come,” he said. “I think you’ll
find the evening interesting.
I have a sort of special an¬
nouncement to make a little
later on, but right now lets
get you people a drink. Looks
like good drinking weather.”
As if to punctuate his
words, a clap of thunder
broke outside the terrace win¬
dows. Some of the women
squealed with exaggerated
fright, grasping the arms of
their escorts. Ray looked at
Leona, and saw her eyes
14
FANTASTIC
widen and lips part with
strange joyfulness at the
sound.
“I love thunder,” she whis¬
pered. “Don’t you, Ray?”
“I can take it or leave it.”
“And lightning! I love
lightning! That sudden flash
of whiteness. It makes me feel
—oh, I don’t know. Wild.
Naked.”
“Let’s get that drink,” Ray
said.
They got the drink, and
several more, and circulated
about the dress-suited men
and formally-gowned women
who clustered, in small, tran¬
sient groups, talking much
about little, laughing at inane
remarks, enjoying their own
company, enjoying the effect
they believed they were
creating on the others. At ten,
four waiters infiltrated the
crowd, bringing delicacies on
silver trays. Leona refused
them laughingly, claiming she
was feeling too good ta dissi¬
pate the effect of the wine
with anything so mundane as
food.
“Think you ought to ease
up?” Ray said, watching her
flushed face. “You’re not
used to this stuff, Leona.”
“Don’t be so stuffy. I’m
having fun, Ray!”
The lieutenant shrugged.
At five minutes before mid¬
night, Clay Bucknam silenced
their conversation and laugh¬
ter with upraised arms.
“Ladies and gentlemen. If I
could have your attention—”
They paused to listen, smil¬
ing in anticipation of some
witticism.
“I have an announcement
to make, one eminently suited
to this atmosphere.”
Outside, the lightning
crackled.
“While we have enjoyed
ourselves this evening, I’m
sure none have forgotten the
recent tragedy involving a
dear friend of us all. I refer
of course to John Van Akin.”
A murmuring noise issued
from the crowd in the room.
“As we know, our poor
John has been sentenced to
die in the electric chair, at a
date not to be made public.
However, I have learned that
date from a completely re¬
liable source, and will reveal
it to you now. The date is July
the Sixth. Tonight.”
Now the sound was a gasp.
“Yes, tonight,” Clay Buck¬
nam said gravely. “As a mat¬
ter of fact, John Van Akin is
scheduled to die in the electric
chair in exactly—” He
glanced at his watch. “Two
minutes and forty-five sec¬
onds.”
The crowd reacted once
more, and Ray said: “Of all
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
15
the sadistic tricks! Let’s get
out of here, Leona.”
“No!” She pulled away
from him. “I want to hear
this.”
“I think it is only approp¬
riate,” Bucltnam continued,
“that we, John Van Akin’s
friends, pause in our moment
of pleasure to pay our last re¬
spects. To say good-bye to
dear old John, and to wish
him godspeed.”
Bucknam looked pointedly
at the mantel. There was a
large-faced ormulu clock, the
hands almost meeting. The
crowd fell silent, and the
clock’s ticking was loud in the
room.
“One minute,” Bucknam
said dramatically.
“I want to leave,” Ray
whispered harshly in Leona’s
ear. “This is the crudest
thing I ever heard of. It’s bar¬
baric—”
“Forty-five seconds.”
“Please, Ray!” Leona
squirmed uncomfortably. “I
just don’t feel like leaving
now.”
“Thirty seconds.”
They were all staring at the
clock now, holding their
breaths.
“Fifteen seconds.”
A woman squealed in fem¬
inine horror, and another
woman giggled.
“Five seconds,” Clay Buck¬
nam said. “Four—three—two
—rone.”
The lights went out, and
the women screamed. The
illumination returned at once,
and Bucknam silenced the
buzzing guests with waving
hands.
“It’s all right; it’s all
right. Only the storm,
folks—”
“That louse!” Ray said
ferociously. “A little theatri¬
cal stunt, just to make things
interesting. I ought to punch
him in the nose. As a matter
of fact—”
“Ray!” Leona gripped his
arm. “Don’t do anything
silly. You have to be toler¬
ant—”
“Tolerant? Of that miser¬
able sadist? No, thanks. I
just want to go, Leona. Are
you coming with me?”
“No!”
“All right,” the lieutenant
said angrily. “Suit yourself.”
He stalked away, and went
out into the storm. He could¬
n’t even feel the rain.
He was back in his apart¬
ment half an hour later,
swearing at Clay Bucknam,
swearing at Leona, swearing
at the weather, and swearing
most emphatically at himself.
When the telephone rang, he
answered it with a swear
word that made Inspector
16
FANTASTIC
Charbis more growly than
ever.
“What the hell’s eating
you ?”
“Nothing,” Ray snapped.
“I’ve just been to a party. I’m
in a party mood.”
“Well, I’m calling about a
party, too,” the inspector
said. “A Rttle party they had
upstate a little while ago.
Only it wasn’t a success. It
was a dismal failure.”
“What are you talking
about?”
“I just got a call from
Ossining. They had the Van
Akin execution scheduled for
tonight, but something hap¬
pened.”
“Postponed?”
“No. They can’t explain
it, because the engineers up
there claim the mechanism’s
perfect. But the fact is that
Van Akin didn’t die. He just
sat there, grinning at ’em, but
he didn’t die.”
“What?”
“You heard me. According
to the warden, he laughed
when they turned on the
juice. They Said they turned a
million volts on him, and it
didn’t have any effect. Van
Akin’s alive.”
“That’s crazy. There must
be something wrong with the
chair.”
“That’s what I said, but
they say no. It gives me the
creeps, just thinking about
it.”
Ray stared at the receiver.
“What happens now?”
“He’ll have to be remanded
for sentence again. That’s the
law.”
“It’s screwy. It doesn’t
make sense.”
Charbis sighed. “Thanks,
Collier. I wanted somebody
else to feel miserable, too.”
And he hung up.
Ray sat in darkness, chew¬
ing on the strange news.
There was a reasonable ex¬
planation, of course: a tech¬
nical problem, an electronic
- accident. The newly-designed
electric chair could kill in less
than a quarter-second. But
the picture of Van Akin,
chuckling at the executioner
while a million volts coursed
through his body . . .
Then Ray thought of
Leona, and wondered if she
were home. He looked at his
watch: it was fifteen minutes
to three.
He dialed her home num¬
ber, and a maid answered,
sleepy-voiced.
“I’m sorry to call so late,
Livy, but is Miss Adams still
awake?”
“No, sir. Miss Adams not
home yet.”
“That can’t be. It’s almost
three.”
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
17
“No, sir, Miss Adams not
home.”
He put the receiver back,
and tried to decide if he was
angry or worried. Then he
left the apartment and took a
cab back to the Bucknam
penthouse.
There was a stillness about
the apartment house that in¬
dicated the end of the festivi¬
ties. He put a casual question
to the elevator operator.
“Everybody gone home?”
“Yes, sir, far as I know.
Mr. Bucknam’s got some
visitors, but I don’t think
they were at the party. Uni¬
formed gentlemen.”
“Police?”
“No, sir. Look more like
pilots to me, sir.”
“How about Miss Adams?
The lady in the red dress?”
The operator chuckled.
“Sure, I remember her, Got
her a cab myself. She wasn’t
feeling any pain.”
Puzzled, Ray stepped off
the elevator. Where had
Leona gone? Should he ask
Bucknam ?
He rang the doorbell, and
Bucknam himself answered,
still immaculate, but looking
fatigued.
“If you’re looking for Miss
Adams, Lieutenant—”
“I know. But now that I’m
here, suppose I come in a min-
18
ute? I heard something to¬
night that may interest you.”
Bucknam looked back over
his shoulder, as if in doubt.
Then he said: “All right, but
make it brief. I’ve got some
business, Lieutenant.”
There were two men sitting
in front of the cold fireplace,
in the trim, dove-gray uni¬
forms of Interplanetary Serv¬
ices. They didn’t rise when he
entered. Bucknam introduced
them casually.
“Meet some friends of
mine, Lieutenant. This is
Captain Vorhees and Captain
Danzig, both of the fleet.”
They nodded at Ray with¬
out interest. Vorhees was a
curly-headed young man with
freckles and a humorous
mouth, but there was no jol¬
lity in his expression. Danzig
was a sullen, dark-eyed man.
“We can talk in here,”
Bucknam said, leading Ray to
an anteroom.
Ray refused a chair, and
said: “I got a call from head¬
quarters tonight about your
friend, Van Akin. Your little
speech tonight was unneces¬
sary. The execution wasn’t
held.”
“I don’t understand. My in¬
formation was reliable.”
“Maybe so. But Van Akin
is alive.”
“And this is what you
wanted to tell me?”
FANTASTIC
“Yes. And to ask if you
knew where Leona Adams
went. She didn’t return
home.”
“Really, Lieutenant.” Buck-
nam chuckled. “I should think
you’d be better able to keep
track of your fiancee than I.
She left around one-thirty; I
don’t know any more than
that. However, if you wish to
look under my bed—”
Ray scowled, and went to
the doorway. “Okay, Buck-
nam. Just thought you might
know.”
“Drop in again, Lieuten¬
ant. When I’m not so busy.”
To himself, Ray swore that
it would be a long time before
he saw Clay Bucknam again.
But he was wrong.
He reached home at four,
and dialed the Adams home
once more.
“I’m awful worried,” the
maid said. “Miss Adams still
not home, Mr. Collier. Think
I should call the police?”
“I am the police,” Ray said
dryly. “Never mind, Livy. She
might have gone on to anoth¬
er party. Don’t get panicky
about Miss Adams; she can
take care of herself.”
He hung up, undressed, and
went to bed.
And dreamed.
There were grinning phan¬
toms dancing in his brain:
Van Akin, grinning at the
executioner as he sat in the
electric chair. Bucknam, grin¬
ning as he proposed a toast
to the dying. And Leona,
grinning as she stood on the
tip of a precipice, her golden
hair streaming behind her as
the lightning crackled and
thunder rolled and crashed
around the mountain tops in
accompaniment to her laugh¬
ter, laughter that rang out
into the stormy night like
jangling bells.
The bells woke him up. It
took him a while to compre¬
hend that the sound was real.
He picked up the telephone
by his bed.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant—” It was a
mockery of a human voice,
grating out the word in an
ugly hoarse whisper.
“Who is this?”
“Lieutenant, help me . . .
help me . . .”
“Who is it?” Ray said, sit¬
ting up, his spine icing with
the awfulness of the sound.
“Bucknam, Bucknam,” the
voice said. “Please help me
. . . help me . . .”
“Bucknam? Are you all
right? What’s happened?”
There was silence. Not the
click of a phone; merely si¬
lence.
Ray dressed hastily, and
for the third time in the past
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
19
twelve hours, returned to the
apartment of Clay Bucknam.
There was dawn breaking
over the penthouse by the
time he reached the door.
It was unlatched. When he
pushed it open and walked,
into the Bucknam living
room, the thing on the Buck¬
nam sofa caused him to cry
out.
He stepped closer, and
knew that the thing was
Bucknam himself. But in the
brief two hours that had
passed since their last meet¬
ing, the dapper, immaculate
figure that had been Clay
Bucknam had become an ob¬
ject of terrifying, sickening,
almost obscene horror. The
dress suit had been torn and
shredded from the body as if
with a ragged blade, and that
came blade had been equally
merciless with Bucknam’s
body. Blood was streaming
everywhere, carving rivers of
crimson into the sofa and the
carpet. One eye was gone
from its socket, and the arms
hung limp and broken from
the narrow shoulders. The
fingers of the hands had lost
all semblance to human fin¬
gers; they were twisted and
broken into unrecognizable
shapes. Ray’s eyes couldn’t
pause long enough to catalog
all the horrors that had been
perpetrated on Bucknam’s
20
body. He turned away from
the loathsome sight and
retched dryly.
Then he started to the tele¬
phone, to call for help, but
the thing on the sofa made a
ghastly sound that stopped
him. He forced himself to
come closer.
“Collier . . . Collier ...”
“What happened?” Ray
said, marveling that the
thing was still alive and
speaking.
“Kill me,” the voice plead¬
ed. “Kill me, Collier . . .”
“Who did this to you?” Ray
shouted at him, not able to
look back at the solitary eye
that stared fixedly.
“Find a way,” Bucknam
croaked. “Find a way, Collier.
I can’t. . . stand the pain ...”
“I want to help you, Buck¬
nam. But you have to tell me
what happened. Was it those
men tonight, the pilots from
Interplanetary?”
Bucknam was silent, but
his lips were moving. Ray
leaned even closer.
“I can’t die,” Bucknam was
whispering. “I can’t die, Col¬
lier. Help me to die ...”
Ray stood up and went to
the telephone. But before he
dialed the number that would
bring medical aid to the bleed¬
ing thing in the apartment, he
suddenly recalled an earlier
FANTASTIC
telephone conversation that
night.
“Van Akin,” he said aloud.
“He couldn’t die, either—”
He placed the call, and then
. returned to Bucknam.
“They’ll be here soon,” he
promised. “But you have to
tell me, Bucknam. You have
to tell me everything. Why
did this happen to you?”
“It’s the jewel,” Bucknam
rasped. “The jewel of Alpuria
. . . the jewel of ecstasy ...”
“What jewel, Bucknam?
Were you robbed? Is that
what happened?”
Bucknam didn’t answer.
The single eye had closed, as
as if merciful unconsciousness
had come at last.
In the office of Inspector
Charbis, Ray Collier’s supe¬
rior threw back his leonine
head and roared in protest at
the lieutenant’s question.
“Now look, Collier! I’ve got
enough troubles on my mind
without worrying about your
love life. We’ve got the worst
damned outbreak of homicide
the east has seen in fifty
years. We got a murderer we
can’t execute. We got a man
tortured to death, who won’t
die. And you’re asking me to
drop everything to find your
girl friend—”
“I didn’t say that,” Ray
answered tightly. “Leona’s
mixed up in this crazy busi¬
ness some way, Inspector. I
think her disappearance has
something to do with Buck¬
nam—maybe even Van Akin.”
“Nuts! You said you had
a fight, didn’t you? Well,
Leona’s a big girl. She decid¬
ed to leave town and let you
stew in your own juice for a
while. That’s what I think.”
“Maybe. Only I think it’s
more than that—”
“Well, let Missing Persons
worry about it. You’re on
Homicide Detail now, Collier.
And you’ve got a lot of work
on your hands. There were
twelve murders in the city
last night. Twelve of them!
I’ve got every newspaper in
town on my neck. The Com¬
missioner’s been ringing my
phone all morning. Next thing
you know, they’ll be sending
congressional investigators
down here—”
“Chief, if you’ll just let me
follow up on this Bucknam
case—”
“I told you to forget it.
Harrigan is down at Inter¬
planetary Services this min¬
ute, looking for those space
jockeys you told us about.
He’ll bring ’em in and we’ll
question them.”
Ray stood up and went to
the door, and Charbis half-
moaned and half-growled, and
said:
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
21
“Look, boy, I’m sorry about
this Leona business. I know
you’re worried about her, but
the world’s gotta go on spin¬
ning. You've got a job to do.
Meanwhile, I’ll goose Missing
Persons into doing everything
they can. Okay?”
“Thanks,” Ray muttered.
Outside the office, he ran
into Harrigan. The big man
was looking sheepish.
“What’s up?” Ray said.
“Did you find Vorhees and
Danzing?”
“No,” Harrigan frowned.
“I checked with space control
and they told me they were
on assignment. Piloting some
freighter out to the Adelphi
system.”
Ray cursed. “That’s a neat
getaway. Did you tell I.S. to
recall them?”
“Sure. But they said they
were beyond radio contact.
And they’re not due back
from Alpuria until the end of
the year—”
“Alpuria?” The name of
the planet jogged Ray’s mem¬
ory. “That’s what Bucknam
said—”
“Said what?”
“Alpuria. The jewel of Al¬
puria. That’s what Bucknam
told me, before he passed
out.”
“What jewel? There ain’t
no gems on Alpuria. It’s no
mining planet—”
“Just the same, that’s what
Bucknam said. Maybe it
wasn’t a jewel he was talking
about, not a real one. Maybe
an allegorical kind of jew¬
el—”
“Come again?”
“Never mind,” Ray said,
moving on. “Excuse me, pal
— I’ve got work to do.”
He was telling the truth.
The cases were piling up by
the hour in the Homicide Bu¬
reau, and they gave Lieuten¬
ant Ray Collier a week of
work that surpassed anything
in his memory. It seemed as
if the city had gone murder-
mad, as if a contagion of
some deadly, murder-inspir¬
ing virus had been spreading
wildly through the streets.
Few of the killings were con¬
fined to the normal trouble
spots of the city, nor to the
dangerous breeds of men
who accounted for so much
crime. It was the solid citi¬
zenry who seemed to have
contracted the ailment: plac¬
id, easy-going husbands who
suddenly and violently ended
the lives of their spouses. An
elderly and gentle school
teacher, strangling a young
child. A small business man,
slaying his partner. A police¬
man, senselessly shooting a
bartender. A lovely young
girl, stabbing her best friend
22
FANTASTIC
to death in the quiet corridors
of a stenographic school.
Few of the murders went
unsolved, but the ceaseless
parade of reports kept Ray
busy from early morning to
late evening. In one respect,
his work load was beneficial:
it kept his mind too active to
worry about Leona’s myste¬
rious disappearance.
At the end of the week, the
murders suddenly ceased, as
if the virus had lost its pow¬
er. And at the end of the
week, Ray Collier had his
first clue about his missing
fiancee.
It came about during the
investigation of a homicide,
involving a taxi-driver named
Frank Blough, a moon-faced,
sad-eyed man who had butch¬
ered his wife on the same
evening of Clay Bucknam’s
torture. Ray questioned him
for hours, and his sullen, in¬
solent answers infuriated the
lieutenant.
“Now come on!” he said
savagely, itching to batter the
leering rouhd face that look¬
ed back at him across the
desk. “You haven’t got a
prayer, Blough. We’ve got two
witnesses who’ll swear they
saw you kill your wife. You
were pretty damned careless
about it. So let’s stop wasting
each other’s time—”
Blough shrugged. “Can I
smoke?”
“No, you can’t smoke! You
can’t do anything until you
talk. I want a full and detailed
confession, and I want it
now!”
“Oh, yeah? Or else what,
Lieutenant? Third-degree? I
thought that you guys never
roughed anybody up?”
“I’d like to, Blough, don’t
be mistaken about that.”
Then his voice softened, and
he pulled up a chair. “Look,
fella, we’ve been asking
around about you. Everybody
says you’re a pretty straight
guy. You don’t have any rec¬
ord. You were even cited for
meritorious service, when you
turned in those guys who
tried to hold you up. You’ve
been in the army; you’ve got
four decorations. Everybody
says you were a nice, easy¬
going guy. So what happen¬
ed? What made you do it?”
Blough sneered. “You’re
breaking my heart, Lieuten¬
ant. I didn’t deny killin’ my
wife, did I? What more do
you want?”
“I want the reasons! I
want to know why you did
it!”
“Because I wanted to!”
Blough snapped. “That’s all
you have to know, ain’t it?”
“But why?”
“Because she was gettin’
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
fat!” Blough shouted. “That’s
why. Now let’s break this up,
huh?”
Ray stared at him, search¬
ing his face. “You trying to
be funny?”
“No! I killed her because
she was gettin’ fat. I never
liked fat women, and I told
her a million times to lay off
the junk she eats. You think
she ever listened? The hell
she did. She was gettin’ big as
a house. So I went home and
picked up the kitchen knife
—” He chuckled suddenly. “I
says to her, I says, ‘Okay,
Norma, let’s get some of that
fat offa you now—’ ”
Ray Collier’s mouth twist¬
ed. “You’re crazy—”
Blough laughed. “Okay,
Lieutenant. So put me in a
booby hatch. You’re the boss.”
“What time was all this?”
“Around three-thirty.”
“Were you off duty?”
“Nah. But after I dropped
my last passenger, I got to
thinking about Norma, and
decided to head home.”
“Where’d you take your
last passenger?”
“Airport. She was a real
beautiful dame.” His eyes
glowed, and he moistened his
lips. “A real sexy dame, in a
red dress. Like this—” He
outlined a curvaceous figure
with a lascivious gesture of
his hands. “I guess maybe
that’s what started me think-
in’ about Norma. She used to
have a nice figure, too.”
“Red dress?” Ray looked
up. “Where’d you pick up the
call?”
“Over on Central Park
South, I forget where.”
“Margrave Apartments?”
Ray said intensely.
“Could be. She was a
blonde, really built. Kinda
tall and slim, but built. And
she was carryin’ a little black
bag—”
The lieutenant struggled to
keep the excitement out of his
voice. “What kind of a bag?
Do you remember?”
“Just an ordinary black
bag.” The taxi-driver put his
hand to his head, as if
his temples were throbbing.
“Wait a minute. There was
something else. She showed
me what was in the bag—”
“She showed you?”
“Yeah. I—I forgot about it
until now. I dunno why. It
wasn’t somethin’ you could
forget easy.”
“What was it?”
“A jewel. Biggest damn
jewel you ever saw in your
life. Shining and flashin’ like
a diamond, big as a man's
head. Never saw anything
like it . . .”
Ray held his breath.
“Okay, Mr. Blough,” he
24
FANTASTIC
said at last. “That's all for to¬
day.”
The day after, Ray visited
the city hospital where Clay
Bucknam had been deposited,
and where the. puzzled physi¬
cians assigned to his case
waited for the lawyer’s in¬
evitable death. But Bucknam,
a grisly remnant of a human
being, still lived. More than
that, the lawyer seemed to be
making a startling and rapid
recovery.
When the lieutenant en¬
tered the room, Bucknam was
propped up in bed, swathed
in bandages that covered
every inch of his abused body,
with one small slit allowing
the lawyer’s single eye access
to sight. Ray grimaced at the
image, but came closer to the
bed.
“Well, Lieutenant,” Buck-
nam’s ghostly voice said,
muffled behind the bandages.
“Nice of you to visit me.”
“This isn’t a social call,”
Ray answered. “You know
what we want, Bucknam. We
want the story. We want to
know what happened to you.”
“And what if I don’t choose
to tell you?”
Ray hitched a chair to the
bed, and dropped his voice.
"I’ll tell you what,” he said
passionately. “I’ll arrange a
little deal with the doctors on
your case. I’ll see to it that
they stop the narcotics that
are keeping you out of pain.
I’ll let you suffer, Bucknam,
don’t think I won’t.”
“You can’t do that,” the
lawyer sneered. “You’re too
humane.”
“That’s what you think,”
Ray kept his voice level, try¬
ing to make the bluff sound
authentic. “But I’m sick and
tired of this business, Buck¬
nam ; I’ll do anything I can to
find out what’s going on.
Even if it means making you
scream.”
Bucknam was silent for a
moment, then he leaned back
against the pillows with a
sigh.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll
tell you what happened.”
Ray looked relieved.
“It started six months ago,”
Clay Bucknam said, in a voice
so muted and low that the
lieutenant strained to hear it.
“Interplanetary Services sent
a routine freighter-flight out
to Alpuria, the third planet in
the Adelphi System. The
pilots were Captains Vorhees
and Danzig, and their job
was simply to establish a
trading set-up with the Al-
purians, a Class D-4 human¬
oid race, who lived in a crude,
primitive society that was
rapidly deteriorating. They’re
a belligerent, hostile people,
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
25
physically far below Earth-
strength, but sufficiently
strong to kill each other off,
which they have been doing
for some twelve Earth-cen¬
turies. The population is less
than nine or ten thousand,
and all the anthropological
and geneticist experts pre¬
dict that it will be nil in an¬
other four or five decades. I.
S. was interested in the trad¬
ing route because of -certain
botanical specimens found in
the jungle areas of the plan¬
et’s equatorial zone. It wasn’t
a terribly important mission;
that’s why we sent Vorhees
and Danzig. Neither are pilots
of the first rank.”
He paused, and Ray waited
impatiently.
“They returned about three
months ago, but they didn’t
appear at I. S. headquarters
to make their report. Instead,
they went straight to Van
Akin.”
“Van Akin? Why?”
“They wanted to see the
big boss; they said they had
made a discovery of vital im¬
portance. Neither were great
brains, Lieutenant, but in
this case, they were right.
Van Akin knew it the moment
he saw what they had in the
little black bag.”
“A jewel?”
“That’s right, Lieutenant.”
Bucknam chuckled dryly.
26
“A fantastic jewel, weighing
thousands of carats, as per¬
fect as the most perfect dia¬
mond ever discovere'd on
Earth. Only it wasn’t hard
like a diamond and it was far
more rare and precious. It
was no color and it was all
colors; it was fire and ice and
beauty and ugliness. It was
bigger than a man’s head,
and so flawless you could see
down to its depths. In the
proper light, it could blind a
man forever. It was alive!”
Bucknam was trembling.
“I first saw the gem on the
night of Vera Van Akin’s
murder. Van Akin brought it
to my apartment in that little
black bag you’ve heard about.
He had bought it from Vor¬
hees and Danzing, for some
fantastic price, but he told me
confidentially that he intend¬
ed to stop payment on the
check before they could cash
it. As I said, they weren’t
very bright boys, or they
would have insisted on cash.”
“Why would he want to
cheat them? If the jewel was
so valuable—”
“He didn’t care about
that,” Bucknam laughed.
“Any more than he cared
about killing Vera. That’s all
part of it, Lieutenant. Don’t
you see?”
“No.”
FANTASTIC
“Nothing matters after the
jewel, Lieutenant,” Bucknam
said dreamily. “You’ll find
that out, some day. Nothing
matters at all ...”
“What are you talking
about?”
“You’ll see, you’ll see,” the
lawyer said. “Once you face
the jewel, you know.”
“Know what?”
“That nothing is impor¬
tant, nothing but yourself and
your own desires, your own
necessities, your own—ec¬
stasy. That’s what it really is,
Lieutenant. A jewel of ec¬
stasy ...”
“You’re not making sense,
Bucknam.”
“Of course not. Not to you,
Collier, not to you. But then,
you haven’t seen the gem.
You don’t know. You’re liv¬
ing in the old narrow world
you were born in, without
realization of the truth that
lies inside the jewel. The real
truth, Lieutenant, the truth
that’s been hidden from man
since the beginning, hidden
from our eyes since Eden.
Eden! Now that’s an idea.
Perhaps this was the Fruit
itself, Lieutenant. The For¬
bidden Fruit they wrote
about. Maybe this was what
they meant . .
Ray didn’t know what to
think. Was Bucknam raving?
Had the torture unbalanced
his mind? It seemed like the
only explanation.
“Anyway,” the lawyer con¬
tinued, “Van Akin brought
the jewel to show me. Once I
saw it, my eyes were opened
as his were. I knew that noth¬
ing was important in the uni¬
verse but Self. I would have
killed him then myself, but his
confession about Vera gave
me an easier route. So I tele¬
phoned the police.”
“And where’s the jewel
now?”
Bucknam snickered.
Ray repeated his question.
“You really don’t know,
Lieutenant? Or are you just
pretending ignorance ? Or
perhaps you don’t want to
know ...”
“All right,” Ray said an¬
grily. “Then let’s hear about
the night of the party. After
I found you with Vorhees and
Danzig. What happened when
I left?”
“They were after the jewel,
of course. They had long since
learned that the check Van
Akin had given them was rub¬
ber, but with the publicity
about the murder so intense,
they couldn’t get their re¬
venge. But then their giant
intellects went to work, and
reasoned that I might be the
possessor of the gem. They
were right, -of course. They
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
27
wanted me to give it to them,
but I wouldn’t. That’s when
they—did what they did.”
“Why didn’t you give it to
them?”
“Because I couldn’t. Be¬
cause the jewel wasn’t in the
apartment any longer.”
“Didn’t you tell them that?”
“Of course. But they
wouldn’t believe me, the
fools. They had to cut it out
of me, with knives—”
“And where was the
jewel?”
“Gone, Lieutenant. Stolen.
It was my own fault, of
course; I should have been
more careful.”
“And who stole it?”
Bucknam’s facial bandages
moved, as if the remnant of a
mouth behind the cloth was
twisting in a smile.
“Someone very dear to you,
Lieutenant,” Clay Bucknam
said. “Someone very close ...”
Ray Collier got up, and left
the hospital room before the
ghastly voice could speak
Leona’s name.
The dumbfounded face of
Inspector Charbis began to
tremble with confused emo¬
tions.
“Collier,” he said softly,
“if I didn’t know you so well
I’d say you’d flipped your
wig. You really mean what
you’re saying?”
“I do,” Ray said heatedly.
“There’s some crazy kind of
power in this jewel that
Bucknam told me about.
Something right out of hell.
Something that makes people
care about nothing but their
own good, that deprives them
of every moral sense that
civilization has given them.
And something more, Inspec¬
tor. Something that makes
them—immortal. They simply
can’t die.”
“That’s the nuttiest part of
all, Collier—”
“But that’s the part easiest
to prove, Inspector. Look at
the evidence. Van Akin, shot
through with a million volts
of electricity. Still alive. Buck¬
nam, tortured to such a de¬
gree that he should have been
dead weeks ago. Still alive.
Both of them saw that gem.
Both of them are behaving
like the wildest beasts that
ever roamed the jungle. And
then there’s Blough, the
hackie. He saw the jewel, and
went home to kill his wife.
Wait until that execution
takes place, Inspector. It’ll be
the Van Akin fiasco all over
again. And God knows how
many other murders we can
attribute to this hellish
stone—”
“One word of this,” Char¬
bis said thunderously. “One
word of this to anybody, Col-
28
FANTASTIC
liei*, and I’ll ride you out of
the force. Understand me?”
“Then you don’t believe
me?”
“I didn’t say that. Maybe
every word is gospel, but I
don’t want such a story to
come out of my department.
Not until we have every
shred of evidence buttoned
down.”
“But you don’t really un¬
derstand, Inspector. Even if
we find this jewel, our prob¬
lems won’t be solved. They’ll
just be started! Anybody
who sees it—just sees the
damned thing—becomes like
Van Akin, like Bucknam, like
Blough, like—” He swallowed
hard. “God forbid — like
Leona must be right now.”
“Well, what else can we
do? We can’t do anything un¬
til we find this nutty diamond
of yours.”
Ray started to raise his
voice. “But it’s not as simple
as that! We can’t treat this
like an ordinary police mat¬
ter, Inspector. We need help.
Scientific help. Advice. We
can’t blunder along on this
thing—”
“Blunder?” Charbis roar¬
ed. “Who’s talking about
blunders?”
“But don’t you see? If you
see the jewel, if I see it—I
won’t care about solving this
problem anymore. I won’t
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
care about anything but my¬
self!”
The inspector shook his
white mane and frowned. “I
think you’re working too
hard, Collier. I think maybe
you can use a little rest. A
leave of absence ...”
“You can’t take me off the
case! You can’t drop it this
way, now that we know—”
“Don’t tell me what I can
do, Collier. I’m ordering you
off the Bucknam business
right now. And I’m ordering
you out of the department
for a month. You’re in no
condition to keep on work¬
ing ; you’re heading for a
breakdown. Don’t argue!
That’s my decision.”
Ray glared at his superior.
Then he turned and stalked
out of his office.
At New York Airport, the
flight-checkers of the city’s
twelve airlines were less than
helpful to Ray Collier in his
unofficial search for Leona
Adams’ whereabouts. Not less
than thirty planes had taken
off the night of the Bucknam
party, and without police
sanction, there was no way he
could check the manifests. If
ever he could have used his
badge, it was then—but his
badge was in the top drawer
of Inspector Charbis’ desk.
He returned home sadly,
29
feeling wearier than he had
ever felt in his life. He bought
an evening paper, and read
the news reports. Every item
seemed strangely unimpor¬
tant, as if the doings of man¬
kind at this moment in
history seemed like petty
games. If Bucknam’s story
was the truth, nothing mat¬
tered but a strange, oversized
gem, of no color and of all
colors, of great beauty and
ugliness, a jewel that trans¬
ported men to an ecstasy of
selfishness and immortality.
Leona! The thought of his
fiancee was like a stab of
pain. Where was she now?
What was she like?
Then he saw the item in
the center section.
It was a one-column affair,
only six inches long. And the
headline was:
Hofstra Galleries, to Exhibit
Unusual Interstellar
Diamond
Pittsburgh, July 30. Law¬
rence Hofstra, president of
the Hofstra Jewelry Com¬
pany, announced the forth¬
coming exhibit of a spectacu¬
lar 7200-carat gem, purport¬
ed to be of the “diamond”
family. The jewel, discovered
on the planet Alpuria of the
Adelphi System, is said to be
the largest of its type ever
displayed in this country. The
exhibition ivill take place on
August 3rd at the Hofstra
Galleries, 105 West Carnegie.
Ray reread the item several
times, and each time the men¬
tal picture it created filled
him with mounting horror. A
public exhibition of the jewel
of Alpuria! A thousand pairs
of eyes viewing the hellish
gem. A thousand more vic¬
tims for the demoniac power
of the jewel—a thousand
more potential murderers,
thieves, immorals, immortals!
He tried to organize the
thoughts that were crowding
into his head. Should he call
Hofstra and warn him of the
consequences? Would it do
any good? Wouldn’t Hofstra
himself be already a victim
of the gem’s evil influence ?
There was only one course
to follow. He would have to
go to the Pittsburgh jeweler
himself. He would have to
stop the exhibition. He’d have
to do anything he could to
prevent the extension of the
jewel’s malignant power—
even to destroying it.
He called New York Air¬
port, and made a reservation.
Lawrence Hofstra’s office
door remained closed to the
lieutenant for two hours,
while he waited impatiently
30
FANTASTIC
on the leather chair outside.
When he was finally given
permission to enter, Ray’s
blood pressure was danger¬
ously high. But the small,
delicate man behind the mas¬
sive desk didn’t seem con¬
cerned by his obvious annoy¬
ance.
“What can I do for you,
Mr. Collier?” he said, with a
pursed-lip smile. “My secre¬
tary said something about
the police . . .”
“That’s right. But I’m not
here in any official capacity,
Mr. Hofstra. As a matter of
fact, I’m on a leave of ab¬
sence.”
“Ah,” the' little man said.
He patted the thick white
hair that covered his temples,
and then made a small effem¬
inate gesture with his hands.
“Then I don’t have to worry
about being pinched, do I?”
He giggled softly.
“No. But you’ve got some¬
thing else to worry about,
Mr. Hofstra. This jewel of
yours—”
“The Alpurian gem?”
“That’s the one. I presume
you’ve—” He hesitated. “I
presume you’ve seen it.”
“Naturally.” The little
man’s eyes sparkled, and he
leaned forward. “Have you?”
“No. And I don’t want to
see it, Mr. Hofstra. More im¬
portant, I don’t want any-
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
body to see it. I’m sure you
must know what I’m talking
about.”
“Perhaps” Hofstra smiled.
“And perhaps not. I had
quite a little debate with my¬
self over that. Once you see
the jewel, you’re rather torn.
You don’t know whether you
want to hide it from sight, or
show it to the whole world. I
decided upon the latter, Mr.
Collier, for after all, that’s my
business.”
“You realize the danger, of
course? You know what the
jewel can do?”
“Only too well, Mr. Collier.
But my interest, you must re¬
member, is pecuniary. I wish
to sell the gem for the high¬
est price possible. I paid quite
a high price for it myself.”
“To whom?” Ray said.
“To a lovely young woman.
A Miss Adams.”
Ray’s shoulders slumped.
“I’ve never made a more
desirable purchase,” Hofstra
said. “Not only from a busi¬
ness point of view, Mr. Col¬
lier—I see that you recognize
that. But the gem has opened
my eyes to a great truth
about myself, a truth I have
always been reluctant to ad¬
mit. I feel truly free for the
first time in my life. Can you
say that’s bad?”
“It depends,” Ray an-
31
swered carefully. “Sometimes
that truth can be harmful.
Sometimes, it can be down¬
right disastrous.”
“Not in my case, Mr. Col¬
lier. Not in my case.”
He leaned closer across the
desk, and his hand touched
the lieutenant’s arm.
“It’s good to know the
truth about oneself, Mr. Col¬
lier. Don’t you agree?”
Ray jerked his arm away.
“Perhaps, Mr. Hofstra. But I
still want to know if you in¬
tend to go through with this
insane exhibit of yours.”
Hofstra sighed. “I do, Mr.
Collier. I most decidedly do.”
Ray drew the service re¬
volver from the shoulder hol¬
ster.
“Then I have to do this, Mr.
Hofstra. I want that jewel,
and I want it now.”
The little man blinked, and
then laughed.
“You forget something,” he
said.
“I don’t forget anything. I
know I can’t kill you, Mr.
Hofstra. But I can do some¬
thing a lot worse. I can put
you in such terrible pain that
you’ll scream for the release
of death. I saw a man in -such
a condition, and the sight
wasn’t pleasant.”
“You can’t bluff me, Mr.
Collier. You’re still one of the
32
humane ones. You haven’t
seen the jewel.”
“Are you really sure?”
Hofstra hesitated. “What—
what would you do?”
“Torture you, Mr. Hofstra.
Beat you until death would
be the kindest thing that
could happen. I won’t hesitate
for a minute to protect the
world from this horror of
yours—”
Hofstra was breathing
heavily, his eyes fixed intent¬
ly on Collier’s face.
“You’ll really do that?
You’ll hurt me?”
“I will, Mr. Hofstra.”
Hofstra’s face started to
work with some strange emo¬
tion.
“Please,” he blubbered.
“Please ...”
“It’s no use, Mr. Hofstra.
I’m deadly serious about this.
I want the jewel of Al-
puria—”
“Please! Please! Do what
you say. Beat me. Torture
me. Please!”
Collier stared at him, and
the little man reached across
the desk to grasp his lapels.
“Do it!” Hofstra sobbed.
“Do it, Mr. Collier. I won’t
complain, I promise! But beat
me, beat me, beat me!”
Collier stepped back in
loathing and disgust, trying
to tear the claw-like hands
from his clothing. The jew-
FANTASTIC
eler hung on desperately, his
mouth working wetly, his
eyes shining, imploring.
“Please, please!” Hofstra
said. “Do it, do it, do it! I
want you to, I want you
to . . .”
Ray squinned from his
grasp, sickened by the sight,
and knew that his threats of
violence were only words of
love to the degenerated crea¬
ture whose worst impulses
had been magnified by the
jewel’s deadly power. He tore
the clutching hands away, and
shoved backwards, until Hof¬
stra fell back over the desk,
trembling with the ugly emo¬
tion that had possessed him.
Then Ray whirled and left
the office, fighting the revul¬
sion that was twisting his
stomach.
On August 4th, a day after
the exhibition of the. jewel of
Alpuria, the City of Pitts¬
burgh was victimized by an
outbreak of criminal violence
that had no parallel in police
history. Openly - committed
thefts, sexual offenses, bru¬
tality, and murder became
commonplace on the streets of
the city. Two hundred major
crimes were committed in the
space of less than twenty-
four hours, and the strength
of the local peace forces was
taxed to the breaking point.
The mayor pleaded to the state
government for immediate
aid, and a detachment of Na¬
tional Guardsmen and even
federal law officers were on
the scene the next day. But
still the crime wave contin¬
ued, an unchecked contagion
that affected every income
and education class, every
age group. The toll at the
week’s end was thirty-five
murders, a hundred assaults,
five hundred and ninety petty
crimes of looting, thievery,
and violence.
Six days after his, unsuc¬
cessful visit to the Hofstra
Company, Lieutenant Ray
Collier stepped out of a
municipal helicopter at the
’copterport in Salem, Massa¬
chusetts. From there, he took
a taxi to the tree-shaded
home of a man he hadn’t seen
in five years—a man who had
never seen him.
The man was waiting in
the doorway of the house
when Ray came up the walk,
sucking on an unlit pipe and
waving his hand. Ray waved
back, and then remembered
that Don Valens couldn’t see
his greeting. Valens had been
a police captain when Ray
first joined the force as a pa¬
trolman, a vigorous, grinning,
physically overpowering man
whose courage and good na-
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
33
ture had earned him friends
on both sides of the law. Then,
in a police battle with a dope-
crazed hoodlum, Valens had
his career ended abruptly and
violently, by a bullet that had
cost him his sight.
Valens ushered Ray into
the living room of his house,
apologized for the disorder,
and showed him to a seat. He
went into the kitchen and re¬
turned with steaming cups of
coffee, and then took a chair
by the fireplace. He lit a pipe,
leaned backhand asked Ray
what his mission was.
“I’m sorry,” Ray said,
blinking at the blind man. “I’d
heard about this kind of
thing before, but when you
actually see it—I mean, you
really get around fine, Don.
You’d never know—”
Valens chuckled. He was no
longer so big and robust, and
his curly black hair was grey.
“It’s the old compensation
story, Ray. I’ve got ears like
an Indian, and a kind of sixth
sense about solid objects in
my path. It’s not as good as
having eyes, though—don’t
let them kid you about that.”
“I’m sorry,” Ray said
again. “But the truth is this,
Don. In the spot I’m in now,
not having eyes would be a
blessing, if I could get around
like you do.”
Valens looked interested.
“Okay. Let’s hear the story.”
Ray told it. He told it fast,
and as concisely as if it were
a police report. Valens listen¬
ed without comment, making
sucking noises on the stem of
his pipe. His face showed no
disbelief and no surprise, ^nd
when Ray was finished, he
tapped the empty bowl
against an ashtray and said:
“So where do I come in,
Ray?”
“I thought maybe you’d un¬
derstand that. Someone like
you can be the only answer to
this thing. In this case, my
worst enemy are my own eyes.
If I see this thing, this crazy
jewel of ecstasy, I’m a goner.
And so is anyone else.”
“Immortality,” Valens said
dreamily. “A lot of people
would like that.”
“That’s the worst of it.
Once word gets out that this
jewel carries the gift of
never-ending life, there won’t
be any stopping them. They’ll
want to see the jewel, even
if it turns them into these
selfish, amoral monsters they
become. It would mean the
end of everything, Don—you
must be able to see that.” He
stopped, embarrassed.
“That,” Don Valens said
with a grin, “I can see. And
just what do you want me to
do?”
34
FANTASTIC
“I want you to steal the
gem. It’s on exhibit right this
minute, in the Hofstra Gal¬
leries. Every day, another
four or five hundred visitors
get a look at it—and every
day the crimes are mounting
up. I want you to steal it,
Don, so I can find a way to
destroy it forever.”
Valens looked thoughtful.
“Doesn’t sound so easy. A
jewel like that—they must
have taken good precautions.
Especially when it has an ef¬
fect like that.”
“Oh, they’re cautious, all
right. Hofstra’s no fool. He’s
exhibiting the jewel because
he wants publicity for his
company, and a high price for
the gem. But he’s too smart
to run the risk of theft.
That’s why he’s using optical
mirrors.”
“Using what?”
“It’s a trick I learned
about when working on a mu¬
seum case a couple of years
ago. Some smart cookie fig¬
ured out an optical system
that works on a brand-new
principle, that makes an ob¬
ject to appear to be one place
when it’s really in another.
Trompe d’oeuil stuff; fool-
the-eye. You could swear the
jewel of Alpuria was sitting
in an innocent glass case, but
in actuality it’s somewhere
else. And I know where that
somewhere else is. Because
when I visited Lawrence Hof¬
stra’s office the other day, I
saw a strange rectangular de¬
vice in the corner of his
room. It was mocked-up to
look like a piece of furniture,
but I recognized a similar ob¬
ject from this museum busi¬
ness. I think the jewel of ec¬
stasy is in easy access, right
in Hofstra’s own office—in a
place no thieves would ever
think of looking.”
Valens chuckled. “Clever, if
it’s true. But not so clever, if
people like you can detect this
little trick of his. So what am
I supposed to do ? Walk in his
office and just lift the thing?”
Ray lifted a notebook from
his jacket pocket and flipped
the cover to look at his pains¬
taking scrawls.
“That’s exactly what I
want you to do, Don. I’ve got
the whole plan of action
worked out to the last detail.
All you’ve got to do is say
yes.”
Valens filled his pipe be¬
fore answering. Then he said,
“Yes,” and struck a match.
In his hotel room, Lieuten¬
ant Ray Collier paced the
newspaper-strewn floor and
waited.
On the mantel, a ship’s-
wheel clock ticked loudly, the
big hands moving across the
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
35
face with tortuous slowness.
It was five minutes of five,
an hour and a half after Don
Valens had been despatched
on his errand.
In his mind, Ray reviewed
the timetable he had set for
Valens. At four o’clock, he
would gain entrance to the
jewelry man’s office. He would
chat for some fifteen minutes
with Hofstra, and make a
point of showing his pupil¬
less, sightless eyes by remov¬
ing his dark glasses. This
was necessary to put Hofstra
off guard, to prevent him
from sensing the danger
Valens represented. At four-
twenty, Valens, guided by his
uncanny senses, would sud¬
denly and violently strike out
at Hofstra and render him
unconscious. It must be done
silently, swiftly, before the
jeweler could cry out for
help.
Then, at four twenty-five,
Valens was to move to the left
corner of the office, where the
rectangular, cloth-covered ob¬
ject concealed the mechanism
that sent the lifelike image
of the jewel of Alpuria to the
showcase in the gallery be¬
low.
He was to open the mecha¬
nism, and withdraw the
jewel.
At four-thirty, he was to
36
place the jewel in the chunky
suitcase brought for the pur¬
pose, open the door, and bid
the unconscious jeweler a
loud and cheerful good-bye.
Then he was to walk calm¬
ly out of the office. At about
four thirty-five, he was to step
into a taxi and give the driver
the address of Ray Collier’s
Pittsburgh hotel.
The trip should have taken
ten minutes; fifteen at the
most. Any moment, the front
door should open, and the
blind man should enter with
his extraordinary trophy.
But the door didn’t open.
Ray looked at the clock
again, and kept on looking. It
was five-thirty before he tore
his eyes away, and went
anxiously to the window.
Still no sign of Valens.
Then he began to curse
himself, curse his folly in al¬
lowing the blind ex-detective
to take part in so dangerous
a mission. If anything hap¬
pened to Valens, it was his
fault.
Then he thought of the
power that lay in the depths
of the jewel, and knew that
even the sacrifice of another
man’s life was worth the at¬
tempt.
At six, he telephoned the
Hofstra Company. There was
no answer.
He ordered a meal from
FANTASTIC
room service at eight, but
found that he couldn’t touch
the food that arrived half an
hour later.
At ten, he heard the sound
of shouting in the streets, and
opened his hotel window in
time to see two women locked
in a death struggle, while
their escorts stood by and
chuckled at the comedy of the
sight. One of the women
screamed as the other found
a long nail file in her purse,
and—
He turned his head from
the sight.
At midnight, he fell into a
heavy sleep, fully-clothed.
He was awakened by a dis¬
creet knock on the door, that
became louder as he resisted
its effect. He opened it on a
pale-faced bellhop, who hand¬
ed him a letter and apolo¬
gized for the hour.
“Man said it was very im¬
portant, Mr. Collier,” he said
apologetically. “I’m sorry—”
“Okay, kid,” Ray said,
shutting the door.
He tore at the blank envel¬
ope with trembling fingers.
The note read:
Dear Mr. Collier:
Thank you. A blind man is
exactly what we required.
How thoughtful of you to
provide him! If you wish to
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
attend our ceremonies, where
you may see Mr. Valens per¬
form for us, consider this an
invitation from
The Immortals
The words filled Ray with
a horror he couldn’t stop to
define. He turned the note
over and found an address:
7 Fire Lane, Phaeton, Con¬
necticut, August 9th. Cere¬
monies begin promptly at
midnight.
“Tomorrow,” he said aloud.
He picked up the hotel
phone, and asked for the air¬
port. The whole thing seemed
like a hideous nightmare.
The town of Phaeton had
the smell of money. Once it
had been a small, pleasant
community, unaffected by the
ring of suburban dwellings
that had begun to surround
it during the middle of the
twentieth century. But the
ring had closed tighter and
tighter around the town’s
neck, until it squeezed out the
remaining residents and left
only a smug, insular, and
monied group who had adopt¬
ed the town as their own. It
boasted the highest per-cap-
ita income of any community
in the nation, and its rigid
standards, and even more
37
rigid zoning laws, had kept
it an isolated outpost.
It had always been an un¬
easy experience merely to
pass through the town of
Phaeton. It made Ray Collier
more than uneasy to call upon
the town’s grandest home—a
white pillared, sprawling,
neo - Colonial, neo - Modern,
monstrous Xanadu of a home.
A home once owned by one of
America’s richest families,
who only recently had put the
suburban palace on the real¬
tor’s auction block.
But the home at 7 Fire
Lane was obviously no longer
for sale. There were lights
burning brightly in the two
dozen windows that faced the
winding driveway. There was
laughter and loud conversa¬
tion behind the magnificent
oak doors.
Ray walked slowly to the
front door, and glanced at his
watch before pushing the
small yellow button on the
side. It was ten minutes to
midnight.
He rang the bell, and it
echoed softly throughout the
house.
The door opened. The man
who answered was a stran¬
ger, faultlessly dressed in
evening clothes, his black tie
slightly askew, his face flush¬
ed as if with recent hilarity.
He was round-faced and over¬
weight, and he giggled as he
said:
“Come on in, friend, come
in. Party’s just getting start¬
ed . . .”
Ray stepped in after him.
At first, his impression was
that it was a masquerade
party straight out of Hell.
The gigantic front room was
alive with people, twisting
and writhing with people,
overstuffed with people. Their
wildness of motion was only
matched by the abandon of
their clothing: violently-col¬
ored dresses, skirts, capes,
shawls, headdresses, sashes;
weirdly elaborate costumes
without sense or significance.
Some of the men wore eve¬
ning dress, and some of the
women were in formal gowns.
But they were the outstand¬
ing exceptions; the rest of the
assemblage were clothed ex¬
plosively, in costumes inspir¬
ed by wild whimsy or mad¬
ness or both.
Ray gaped at the sight, and
then caught the arm of a pass¬
ing figure in splashy reds and
yellows. The man giggled at
his touch, and tried to get
away, but Ray’s grip tight¬
ened.
“Whose place is this?” he
shouted. “Who’s throwing
this party?”
“She is!” the man shouted
back with a laugh, as if he
38
FANTASTIC
had told a great joke. Then
he broke away, leaving Ray
standing helpless and con¬
fused amid the crowd of
revelers.
A slim young girl, her
wrappings of transparent
shawls the only covering for
her lithe body, sidled up to
him and threw long cool arms
about his neck. A man pulled
her away, slapping at the
small, innocent face, a face
only halfway out of child¬
hood. A matronly woman, her
features speaking dignity,
and her mouth speaking ob¬
scenities, brushed by him.
The party whirled insanely
about him, providing its own
unearthly music, a dance that
had no rules. A bacchanalia of
wild abandon.
“This is crazy—” Ray said,
to no one, and started to back
towards the door.
“Stop!”
There was a figure at the
head of the stairway, a figure
encased in the trappings of a
priestess, a figure long and
supple, but without a hint of
angularity in the tall body. A
figure with blonde hair cas¬
cading in a soft, unbroken
wave to her shoulders. The
figure of Leona Adams.
“The party’s just begin¬
ning,” she said softly, but
commandingly, the orgy still¬
ed by her entrance. “Let’s not
lose any guests.”
They turned their heads to
look at the lieutenant.
“Downstairs,” she said,
tossing back her hair.
The crowd cheered, and
hands were moving Ray with
the direction of the crowd,
heading towards a stairway
that led to the basement. He
shouted something at Leona,
but it went unheard in the up¬
roar. Then he became silent,
and allowed the fantastic as¬
semblage to lead him below.
The sight that met his eyes
as they descended the long
curving staircase seemed like
a medieval nightmare. The
immense room that had once
been a rich man’s interior
playground had been convert¬
ed into an arena, a gigantic
showplace ringed by dozens
of plush chairs, with elab¬
orate spotlights trained to
play their electrical tricks
throughout the center area.
The crowd of revelers scur¬
ried for choice seats, battling
each other for the privilege
of getting the best view of
whatever entertainment their
host was providing. They,
seemed to ignore Ray now, so
eager were the£ to take their
places for the show, and he
backed up the stairs again.
Then Leona came in.
“Ray,” she said throatily.
39
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
“How wonderful to see you
again.”
She extended her hand to¬
wards him, but he didn’t take
it. Instead, he stared at the
beautiful face he loved, and
saw that the eyes were the
eyes of a stranger. There was
a brilliance, a ferocity, an
alien quality in Leona’s eyes
that told him the girl he loved
was dead. This was a new
Leona, a thing created by a
monstrous force from space,
a creature made by the jewel
of Alpuria.
“Leona,” he said, his face
pained. “What’s happened to
you? What’s all this about?”
She laughed. “My guests
are impatient, Ray. Won’t
you join me downstairs?”
“You own this place?”
“Of course. I’ve always
loved this house, ever since I
was a child, when my father
was alive. Those were better
days for us, Ray, before our
family lost its fortune. I’d
promised myself to buy this
house one day, and now I’ve
done it. The jewel has done it
for me.”
“You sold it'” Ray said, his
voice choked. “You stole the
jewel, and then you sold it. To
Hofstra—”
“They’re getting impatient,
Ray. Won’t you come with
me?”
He looked down the stair¬
way at the crowd, now seated
around the great arena, clap¬
ping their hands and hooting
derisively.
“Valens,” Ray said. “What
happened to Don Valens,
Leona? Do you know? Did
you send the letter?”
She laughed. “Yes, I sent
it. I wanted to make sure I
saw you again, Ray. I still
want you, Ray . . .”
She touched him, and her
hands were cold.
“Where is he?” the lieuten¬
ant said, backing away.
• “Come with me—and find
out.”
She held out her hand
again, and Ray took it.
He followed her down the
stairs, to two vacant chairs at
the far side of the arena. He
sat beside her, his eye fixed
on the door that opened dark¬
ly on the other side of the
room.
“What’s going to happen?”
he said to her. “What’s it all
for Leona?”
She smiled, and stood up,
raising her molded arms
above her head to bring the
crowd to silence.
“Members of the Immor¬
tals,” she said, and the crowd
applauded happily. “We who
have been freed of the chains
of enforced morality, and
freed of the terror of death,
40
FANTASTIC
we who have seen the Truth
revealed in the depths of the
gem . .
Again, the crowd hooted
and shouted in ugly enjoy¬
ment.
“We are here to celebrate!”
Leona said. “We are here to
glorify! And we are here to
punish!”
Their cheers were louder
than ever.
“What kind of game is
this?” Ray said harshly.
“What do you think you are,
Leona?”
She looked at him with
mingled amusement and con¬
tempt, and then turned back
to the assemblage.
“My friends,” she said, “we
are here tonight to witness
two great and significant
events. One is the punish¬
ment of a man who sought to
destroy the jewel of Truth,
the jewel of Alpuria, the
jewel of ecstasy—sought to
destroy it because he himself
could never know the jewel’s
blessing. Fortunately, we
were able to prevent this
catastrophe, and it is only
proper that his punishment
and execution be made pub¬
lic. Bring out the blind
man!”
From the dark doorway on
the other side of the room, a
striking young woman in a
brief costume emerged, and
then another, bringing be¬
tween them a hooded figure
whose face wasn't visible to
the crowd, a figure that
moved slowly and uncertainly
into the middle of the impro¬
vised arena.
“Valens,” Ray whispered.
“What have you done to him,
Leona?”
“He’s all right,” she laugh¬
ed. “But not for long.”
Then Ray saw the whips in
the hands of the woman, curl¬
ing black thongs of tough
leather.
“You can’t do this!” He
went to his feet.
“Don’t be foolish, Ray.
This crowd will tear you to
pieces if you try to stop me.”
She put a cool hand on his
cheek. “You won’t mind so
much, Ray, not in a little
while. My friends!” She sig¬
nalled to the crowd again.
“Before we proceed with the
punishment of the blind man,
we have one more task to ac¬
complish. There is one here
who still lives in mortal ig¬
norance, who still sees
through eyes that have never
met the radiance of the gem.
We are going to change those
eyes tonight—for the jewel
of Alpuria is here!”
The crowd fell silent.
“Bring out the gem,” Leona
said.
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
41
“No!” Ray turned his eyes
away from the entrance of
the arena, from the formally-
attired figure that was emerg¬
ing.
“Don’t fight me,” Leona
whispered intensely. “Don’t
fight the jewel, Ray. You
don’t know how happy we
can be . . .”
The figure was advancing
towards the lieutenant, hold¬
ing something carefully be¬
tween his hands, a round ob¬
ject covered with a black vel¬
vet cloth. Ray watched in fas¬
cination, and recognized the
small, delicate face of Law¬
rence Hofstra. There was a
twisted smile on the jeweler’s
face, and even as he ap¬
proached, Ray could hear the
low giggle coming from his
throat.
“Look, Ray!” Leona said
hoarsely. “Look at the
Truth!”
“No! I don’t want to see
your rotten Truth, Leona. I
don’t want your kind of im¬
mortality—”
“Look, Ray. You have no
choice but to look ...”
The lieutenant covered his
eyes with his hands, and
barely realized the swift and
sudden event which happened
before him. He heard the hor¬
rified scream of the crowd,
and saw the blur of motion as
Don Valens broke from his
captors and threw himself at
the small man in the center of
the arena. There was a brief
struggle, and Valens was
holding the jewel in his hand,
the magnificent gem flashing
fire in the great room.
“Stop him!” Leona shriek¬
ed. “Stop him!” the crowd
echoed. “Stop him, stop him!”
Valens was moving back¬
wards, away from the terri¬
fied faces of the mob.
Then he lifted the jewel
high.
“NO!” A hundred throats
screamed the word.
“Kill him!” Leona cried.
A flash of metal glinted
somewhere in the crowd, and
then the metal streaked across
the arena. The knife embed¬
ded itself deeply into the chest
of the hooded man, buried al¬
most to its hilt. Ray heard
the blind man’s gasp, and
prayed that he would keep the
strength to fulfill his purpose.
He did. His arms came
whipping downwards, send¬
ing the jewel of Alpuria
crashing to the hard floor.
There was no diamond-
hardness in the strange gem.
The blow smashed and splin¬
tered it like glass, sending ten
thousand shards flying across
the faces of the crowd, leav¬
ing a cloud of blue-white pow¬
der floating above the arena.
42
FANTASTIC
Then Valens fell forward,
and lay still.
The crowd was silent, hush¬
ed, fearful.
“What will it mean?”
Leona whispered. “What will
it mean to us?”
They were looking at each
other, seeking the answer in
their eyes.
Then Leona lifted her arms
again.
“Nothing!” she said tri¬
umphantly. “Nothing! The
jewel is no more—but we are
the same. We are the immor¬
tals !”
They cheered wildly and
danced out into the center of
the arena, continuing the
abandoned orgy that had be¬
gun on the upper floor, cele¬
brating their release from
death and the moral codes of
men. From somewhere, music
came, loud and savage.
Ray Collier left his seat,
and pushed his way through
the whirling mob to Don Val¬
ens’ side.
He bent over the still fig¬
ure, and with a great effort,
withdrew the knife from its
chest. Blood gushed forth, but
no heart pumped it. Valens
was dead.
“Ray!”
He heard Leona’s voice be¬
hind him. She was holding
out her lovely arms to him,
her mouth laughing, her eyes
shining. She was more beauti¬
ful than ever.
“Ray, don’t be angry with
me. I’m really the same, Ray.
I still want you ...”
“Want me? But do you still
love me, Leona?”
She laughed. “Love is just a
word. Come to me, Ray.
Dance with me. I want to feel
your arms around me again.
I want you to hold me close
to you . . .”
He stood up, as if in a
dream, and moved towards
her. She put her arms about
him, and they moved into the
wildly shifting crowd that
was milling about the arena
floor. He held her close, feel¬
ing the warm pulse in her
body, sensing the familiar
perfume of her skin.
“Ray, darling,” she mur¬
mured. “We can be so happy
... for as long as we can...
if only you’d ...”
“Yes, Leona,” he said
vaguely, and drove the knife
into her side.
Her eyes stared at him.
“Ray,” she said, the word
half a question.
He didn’t answer. He
watched her face.
“Ray!” she screamed, and
the crowd, suddenly stilled,
parted to create a circle about
them.
She slid from his arms.
JEWEL OF ECSTASY
43
“I had to,” he said. “I had
to find out, Leona ...”
She was still staring at
him, shaking her head, not
believing in the shock or the
pain, or the realization of
what was happening to her.
Then her eyes closed, and
she rested, like a tired child,
on the floor.
Ray bent over her, lifting
her wrist.
He waited for a full min¬
ute, and then looked up at the
frightened, inquiring faces
around him.
“She’s dead,” he said flatly.
“Dead,” their voices re¬
peated, in whispers.
“No longer immortal now,”
Ray Collier said. “Thank God
for that. None of you. None
of you . . .”
He let himself cry over
Leona Adams’ body.
THE END
STATEMENT REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF AUGUST 24, 1912, AS AMENDED BY THE
ACTS OF MARCH 3, 1933, AND JULY 2, 1946 (Title 39. United States Code, Section 233)
SHOWING THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, AND CIRCULATION OF FANTASTIC
published monthly at Chicago, Illinois, for October 1, 1957.
The names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business man-
Publisher, Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 64 E. Lake St., Chicago 1, Ill.
Editor, Paul W. Fairman, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
Managing editor, Cele Goldsmith, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
Business manager, G. E. Carney, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
2. The owner is: (If owned by a corporation, its name and address must be stated and also
immediately thereunder the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 per¬
cent or more of total amount of stock. If not owned by a corporation, the names and addresses
of the individual owners must be given. If owned by a partnership or other unincorporated
firm, its name and address, as well as that of each individual member, must be given.)
Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 64 E. Lake St., Chicago 1, Ill.
Estate of William B. Ziff. 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
A. M. Ziff, 366 Madison Ave.. New York 17, N. Y.
3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding
1 percent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: (If there are
none, so state.) None.
4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears
upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the
person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting: also the statements in the two para¬
graphs show the affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions
under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the com¬
pany as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner.
5. The average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed,
through the mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the 12 months preceding the date
shown above was: (This information is required from daily, weekly, semiweekly, and tri¬
weekly newspapers only.)
[SEAL]
Sworn to and subscribed before:
me this 27th day of September, 1957.
VICTOR C. STABILE. Notary Public
(My commission expires March 80, 1959.)
44
Mr. Fettbley’s
Nudes
By WILSON KANE
There was nothing wrong with
Mr. Fenbley s eyes; still he had
a hard time separating the
gals from the dummies.
ILLUSTRATOR: NOVICK
“TflENBLEY,” called the
X 1 floorwalker, a cadaver¬
ous gentleman with a large
carnation. “Come here.”
Fenbley came.
And he came promptly. At
the age of 27, Arnold Fenbley
was the oldest stock boy in
Marcal’s Department Store.
He didn’t want to stay a stock
boy forever. He wanted to be
a floorwalker someday, so he
could wear a large carnation
in his lapel just like Mr. Jas-
person.
Then he’d make enough
money to get a date with
Sophie Eroic, a buxom girl in
Men’s Pajamas, whose hips
spoke a universal language
45
when she walked, but whose
innocent face told you that
what her hips were saying
wasn’t true at all.
“Yes, Mr. Jasperson,” said
Arnold Fenbley, eyeing the
carnation.
“There’s a mannikin in the
storage room. Take it to the
downtown branch. Hurry.”
“Yes, sir.” said Arnold.
He liked to go to the stor¬
age room because it gave him
a chance to pass Sophie, To¬
day she had chosen to wear a
bright red blouse and tight
gray skirt, thus insuring a
substantial hike in sales
in Men’s Pajamas. Arnold
slowed as he neared her.
“Hello, Sophie,” he said.
“What’s doing?”
“Nothing for at least a week
now,” she said mysteriously,
raising and lowering her eye¬
brows at him. She always was
saying things like that and
Arnold never quite could un¬
derstand what she meant. But
he always smiled agreeably as
he did now and she smiled
back. It helped round out his
day.
He opened the storage room
door and went inside. Against
the corner was the figure of a
female mannikin. Nude. It
seemed to be a particularly
shapely mannikin, not the
usual kind with straight up
46
and down lines with a curve
here and there to distinguish
it from a male mannikin. He
looked around for something
to wrap the mannikin in. It
was 25 blocks to the down¬
town store. He couldn’t carry
her like this.
“Hurry up, Fenbley,” said
the stock man, “they’re wait¬
ing for that downtown.”
Arnold grasped the figure
gingerly and then hoisted it
over his shoulder. His left
arm encircled her waist and
his right arm held her in place
by resting firmly on her up¬
per thigh. Somehow she did
not feel quite like the other
mannikins he had transport¬
ed to and from the front win¬
dow. This felt warm and
strangely . . . almost human.
He kicked open the door
with his foot and went out¬
side. As soon as he stepped
outside three people turned
his way and giggled. He knew
it would be like this. Then,
with measured stride and a
stoney glare aimed straight
ahead, he walked for the sub¬
way station.
“Let me know how you
make out with her, buddy?”
called a man on the corner.
Arnold made out he hadn’t
heard, but he felt his ears get
red at the laughter that fol¬
lowed.
Then he seemed to be los-
FANTASTIC
ing his grip. The mannikin
seemed to be trying to get
away from him. If Arnold
didn’t know better, he would
swear the mannikin was kick¬
ing her feet and digging her
hands into his shoulders. He
grunted and grabbed her
more tightly and secured her
position against the side of his
head. But dammit, her feet
were kicking. And she was
grabbing his shoulders.
A face appeared right next
to his. It was a pretty face.
Smiling and blue-eyed, topped
with blonde hair. She had
wrapped herself around his
neck like a snake and was
pressing her lips against his
ear.
“You’ve saved me,” she
whispered.
Arnold began to run, feeling
the eyes of everyone on him.
“Don’t run,” she said,
“you’re hurting my stomach.”
“Don’t give a darn about
your stomach,” puffed Arnold.
“You will. I’m no ordinary
mannikin,” she said.
“I could tell that the mo¬
ment I laid hands on you,” he
said out of the side of his
mouth, trying to keep his com¬
posure.
“Do you know who manu¬
factured me?” she asked.
“No and I don’t care.”
“My manufacturer said I
was entitled to one fling as a
human. When I met somebody
whose body chemistry was
just right I’d awake and be¬
come just like any other girl.”
“It’s a silly story and you’re
not like any other girl I've
ever known.”
“Well, if you want to be¬
lieve that okay. But as long as
I touch you I’m living and lov¬
ing it. Don’t think I’m going
to kick away this chance by
letting you go.”
“Well I'm letting you go.”
“Try it, honey boy. You’re
mine. You touched me awake
as it were.”
The back of his neck was
warm as he felt her body
against him. He raced toward
a cab stand, his companion
draped artfully around his
neck and shoulders.
“Is this cab taken?” he
asked.
“Get a hotel, buddy,” the
driver snarled. “Want me to
lose my license?”
Panic grew inside Arnold
as he felt the girl’s arm
twine around his neck as she
rubbed her face against his.
“Boy,” she said softly, “I
owe you everything. And be¬
lieve me, you’ll collect.”
“Stop hounding me,” Ar¬
nold said to her. “Can’t you
see I’ve got a job to do. You’ve
got to get downtown and right
away.”
MR. FENBLEY’S NUDES
47
“Take me anywhere you
want to,” she replied. “Any¬
where.” He shuddered as he
felt her lips tickle his ear.
He raced again toward the
subway. He’d have to risk it.
They needed this mannikin,
or rather this make-believe
mannikin downtown, and they
were going to get it down¬
town.
As he neared the subway
entrance a burly arm shot out
in front of him.
“Who’s your friend?” Ar¬
nold looked up and saw the
face of a huge policeman. He
wore the expression that many
officers do who have patrolled
the mid-town area for many
years. One crackpot more or
less wouldn’t affect him at
all.
“She’s not my friend,” said
Arnold.
“Yes, I am,” the girl said.
“She says she is your
friend,” said the officer.
“I never saw her before,”
protested Arnold.
“I never did either,” the
policeman said, “but I do see
her now. And I do see too
much of her. That’s for sure.
Now get her off the streets
and into some place where it’s
more appropriate.”
“I’m taking her downtown,”
Arnold said.
“Do that. Take her way
downtown. But get her inside
48
and get some clothes on her
right away.”
“I don’t mind a bit, officer,”
the girl said.
“Frankly, ma’am, I sort of
like it myself, but these other
people here might not under¬
stand. So get your boy friend
to buy you some clothes.”
Arnold swung around and
began walking as quickly as he
could to the corner, which he
rounded with considerable dif¬
ficulty. He couldn’t go any
farther. He straightened up
suddenly and forced her arms
around him. She began to
slide down his back and he
started running. But she still
had hold and kept a firm grip
on the back of his pants as he
began galloping' away. Sud¬
denly she gave a leap and was
astride his back, like a cow¬
boy on a runaway stallion.
“Will you get off?” he
shouted frantically, as he
stumbled and nearly bumped
against an elderly gentleman
who was staring at him with
his mouth wide open.
“Hey, is this guy bothering
you, miss?” The question
came from a short man with
wide shoulders who had plant¬
ed his feet in front of Arnold
and wouldn’t let him pass.
“Not so’s you’d notice it,”
she smiled.
“I think they’re Siamese,”
FANTASTIC
said a woman. “They’re joined
like that. Probably since
birth.”
“I’m not Siamese in the
slightest,” said Arnold, “and
why don’t you go home?”
“You’re in no position to
argue, young man,” said the
woman menacingly, advancing
toward him, “I could kick you
into oblivion right now, do
you know that?”
“I am well aware of that
fact, madam, but I cannot dis¬
cuss it any longer. I am on
urgent business.”
“You said it,” said the girl
on his back. She leaned over
and wrapped her arms tightly
about his neck. “He just pro¬
posed to me,” she said.
“I did not,” Arnold protest¬
ed.
“Well don’t you, think it’s
about time you did?” asked a
righteous-looking woman.
Arnold let out a maddened
shriek and galloped past her,
knocking the short, tough man
aside. He heard the shouts and
calls as he ran toward the
front door of Marcal’s.
He bumped against the
front door and his parcel was
almost dislodged from his
back. She had swung down
and was sort of running along
with him, holding on to his
neck and trying to swing up
on his back.
Arnold twisted and tried to
break away. He heard the ex¬
cited shriek of the shoppers,
which started slowly but then
broke into a frightful cre¬
scendo of feminine shouts and
screams.
“I never saw this in Iowa,”
said a woman.
“I told you you’d like New
York,” said her friend.
Arnold stopped and squirm¬
ed but the girl wouldn’t let go.
She clung and tried to swing
her legs around for a firmer
hold. This time she succeeded,
but was facing him from
the front, wrapping herself
around him tightly.
From somewhere Arnold’s
name was being called.
“Here,” he called at the top
of his lungs, as he bounced and
twisted and bucked and tried
to free himself from the ten¬
tacle-like limbs of the girl.
In a moment he was off his
feet and on the floor rolling
with his companion.
“Let me alone,” he shouted.
“Not for a moment,” she
replied, laughing at him, as
they rolled down the main
aisle, like a big rubber ball
that was not quite entirely
round.
“I wish these young couples
would do their bickering in
private,” said a woman cus¬
tomer who had dropped the
earrings she was fingering to
MR. FENBLEY’S NUDES
49
watch the moving mass of en¬
twined legs and arms and
bodies.
“And then people wonder
why there’s so much divorce
going on,” said her friend
without taking her eyes from
Arnold and his clinging com¬
panion.
“I think she should get cus¬
tody of the children,” said the
other woman.
“There aren’t any children,”
Arnold shouted, as he passed
her way.
“You’d never know it to
look at you,” she returned.
“FENBLEY!”
The voice belonged to Jas-
person.
“Here,” shouted Arnold.
“Down here. Come quick.”
“Don’t invite everybody,”
said the girl, who tightened
her grip on him. “What kind
of a girl do you think I am?”
Now the girl spun herself
around and she had the upper
hand, or rather the upper
body, and Arnold was forced
to fight her again to be in a
position to call for help from
Mr. Jasperson.
“Over here, Mr. Jasper-
son!” he yelled. “Counter 13.”
Arnold looked at the ring of
faces staring down at him and
closed his eyes when he saw
Sophie Eroic looking down at
him, a faintly bemused expres¬
sion on her face. Now she’d
never even talk to him again.
“I’m here now, Fenbley, you
fool,” said Mr. Jasperson,
bending down and grabbing
one of the long bare arms that
were attached to Arnold’s
neck. He pulled and Arnold
felt the grip relax.
“They’re fighting over the
girl,” said the woman from
Iowa.
“Geographically, yes,” said
Arnold looking up, “emo¬
tionally no.”
“Stop blabbering you idi¬
ot,” said Mr. Jasperson, “this
girl has every right to sue us
right out of business.”
“Mr. Jasperson ...”
“It’s no way to treat a cus¬
tomer,” he said stiffly, as he
forced his body between Ar¬
nold’s and the girl’s.
“She’s not a customer,”
screamed Arnold, wrenching
his arm free.
“That’s right,” said a wom¬
an, “he brought her in with
him.”
“They have names for men
like you, Fenbley,” said Mr.
Jasperson, as he turned him¬
self into a human wedge to
pry the bodies apart. At last
he succeeded and they snapped
back and away from each
other. “Get rid of her,” Mr.
Jasperson shouted.
Aronld leaped into action.
He grabbed the mannikin
50
FANTASTIC
which was lying sprawled on
the floor and slung it over his
shoulder as he had before. He
raced down the aisle unmind¬
ful of the stares and laughter
that followed him. He opened
the storage room door and
dumped the form on the
floor. He brushed off his
sleeves and looked bitterly
down.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” he
said angrily. But she didn’t
hear. She was lying limp, her
arms flung outward. He bent
over. She didn’t move. He
touched her leg. It wasn’t
warm.. He remembered her
words as he carried her down
the street. He touched her
again. It was the putty and
plaster all mannikins are
made of.
Mr. Jasperson swung open
the door.
“That’s it, Fenbley. Pick up
your check. You’re through.
That’s the last orgy you’ll ever
have on company time.”
Arnold looked once more at
the mannikin and went out.
Now he’d never be a floorwalk¬
er with a big carnation.
Just outside the employees’
dressing room later, Sophie
was waiting for him. Sophie
with her bright red blouse
and tight gray skirt and in¬
nocent face and teasing lips.
Arnold wasn’t sure whether
he should talk to her or apolo¬
gize or what. But Sophie spoke
first.
“That was solid, old tiger,”
she purred, leaning against
him. “You for me.”
“Me for you?” he replied.
“You know it. Pick me up
at 6, front door. We’ll get to¬
gether and talk this thing
over. That is, we’ll talk for a
while.”
She turned and walked
slowly away, her hips weaving
a very descriptive pattern as
she did so.
Then and there Arnold de¬
cided that there were other
things in life just as im¬
portant as being a floorwalker
and wearing a carnation in
your lapel.
THE END
MR. FENBLEY’S NUDES
51
you ever saw.
have gone crazy—and I hoped
it would stay that way.
W HEN the girl next door
displays her charms for
two hours on my TV set,
while taking a bath, you can
hardly blame me for not turn¬
ing the dial to another chan¬
nel.
The first hour of the show
was just about as uninhibited
as you can get. I hadn’t
watched ten minutes before I
knew conclusively that she
didn’t know she was on TV.
After the bath, she exer¬
cised, and was a mighty
pretty picture in pink and
white when she finished.
Especially since my TV
isn’t a color set. It’s just
plain black and white 27-inch
screen.
When the show was over,
the bedroom vanished and the
commercial came on,
53
through all the recital of the
marvels of secondhand cars
better than new and costing
practically nothing, hoping
the cameras would return to
the girl next door. But I was
disappointed. The late-late
show came next, circa 1929,
and I flipped the switch.
I sat there a few minutes
thinking. Obviously some¬
thing strange had happened.
My TV set wasn’t function¬
ing as it should normally be
expected to function. In spite
of that, I had no intentions of
calling in a serviceman. Any
serviceman would touch that
set at his own peril. But just
the same, I intended to find
out just what had happened.
Being an amateur astrono¬
mer, I’m gifted with a bit
more than ordinary curiosity.
I’ve got an excellent observa¬
tory built on the roof of my
house, with a seven-inch re¬
flector that’s good enough to
separate the rings of Saturn
and show up anything a
thousand yards across on the
Moon. Tonight, like almost all
nights, I’d been using the
telescope. I’d gone up to the
observatory about nine to
watch Comet Arend-Roland.
I’d been doing so for three
consecutive nights, ever since
Arend-Roland had developed
its sensational double tail.
I think I’d seen the double
tail even before the big ob¬
servatories spotted it and
announced it to the public.
One night it hadn’t been
there, the next it was knifing
out toward the sun like a
lance, straight as an arrow,
and thin as a pencil. It was
certainly the most peculiar
double tail any comet in mem¬
ory had ever sported. There
is no record of a similar
phenomenon among recorded
comets. Quite a few comets
have had double tails, some
even three and four. But this
one was different. The normal
tail was like that of all well-
behaved comets. But the thin
“searchlight” that shot out of
Arend-Roland’s nose was just
that, in appearance. It looked
so much like a searchlight
that you unconsciously chang¬
ed your classification of the
comet from a heavenly body
to some sort of craft with a
headlight and an exhaust
trail.
But what kind of a search¬
light could cast its beam for
millions of miles through
empty space? What refractive
powers could possibly exist in
space that would make its
beam visible? No, of course it
wasn’t a searchlight. The as¬
tronomers explained it in the
paper as being a “jet of va¬
porized material shot out
from the body of the comet.”
54
FANTASTIC
They theorized that as the
comet approached the sun, be¬
ing composed of frozen gases
and ice, explosions had oc¬
curred as the frozen mass
vaporized, and one explosion
had been of sufficient force to
eject this stream of gases for
millions of miles.
Being just an amateur as¬
tronomer, I can’t really say,
but I’ve looked at a lot of
comets, and I just don’t think
they are chunks of ice. Any¬
way, tonight I’d watched
Arend Roland until my neck
got stiff, trying to figure out
that headlight beam. Then,
when the comet had gotten too
near the horizon to observe
very well, I’d come down¬
stairs and decided to watch
TV for a while before going
to bed. At first I’d caught the
tail end of Gunsmoke; but
then the interference had be¬
gun.
You get so you can recog¬
nize types of interference—
an airplane passing over, an
electric appliance, a passing
diesel, a distant station on the
same channel beginning to
synchronize its signal, the re¬
sulting “ghosts.”
Well, this time there were
interference patterns I’d
never seen before. Little geo¬
metric figures of light that
wandered over the screen,
I MARRIED A MARTIAN
seeming to attack various
portions of the picture, and
obliterating it. And where the
geometric figures had been,
the picture remained obliter¬
ated. In the obliterated por¬
tions, “ghosts” began to
appear, almost as though
they were taking advantage
of the vacant spots to put in
an appearance.
I’d been just about to turn
off the set in disgust when
one of the “ghosts” resolved
itself enough to become
identifiable—identifiable as a
well-rounded portion of the
female anatomy. Startled, I
watched to see if the rest of
the'“ghost” would come into
focus, even though I felt cer¬
tain that the intruding dis¬
tant station’s picture, when it
actually became visible, would
prove to be somewhat less
spectacular than my initial
glimpse had telegraphed to
my mind. I was wrong.
The picture had come into
full clarity all at once, and
almost as instantly I had
realized that it was no dis¬
tant station that was coming
in, because I recognized the
face I was seeing, although
the body was not quite so fa¬
miliar because I was accus¬
tomed to seeing it fully
clothed when I met it on the
street outside my house every
morning. There on my screen
55
was the girl next door, very
obviously in her bathroom,
and just as obviously fully
prepared to take her bath.
I’ve heard that TV color is
excitingly good. I’ve never
seen a color TV set, but one
thing I am sure about, and
that is the TV color set you
can buy today can’t even ap¬
proach the color that appear¬
ed on my black and white set.
Go outside on a summer day,
and you won’t see such vivid
color. The contrast is some¬
thing like a Kodachrome pic¬
ture of that summer scene—
always more vivid on your
projection screen than your
eye remembers it to have
been in actuality.
Now, sitting there before
my darkened set, I thought
about that color, and I got the
feeling that I’d seen a pro¬
jected image that might be
compared in essense to a
Kodachrome projection. I
knew I had been seeing the
girl next door, but I doubted
if the actual colors were as
vivid as they appeared on my
screen. I had the impression
of magnification; not in size,
but in intensity. This picture
was intensely intense.
Suddenly I got it—this
couldn’t have been a picture
from my TV tube, or it would
have had that slight fuzzy ap¬
pearance that is the result of
the swiftly moving alternate
lines of white and black that
pass over the face of the tube
from the “gun.” Or, in this
case, the alternate lines of
color and black. The newer
sets have finer lines in the pic¬
ture, but still the lines are
there. This picture of the girl
next door had had no lines.
The picture tube in my set
had been emitting no elec¬
tronic rays during the period
I had been watching the girl
next door, but the picture end
of the tube had been picking
something up just the same—
something without the lines it
would have had to have, if it
had been an ordinary televi¬
sion broadcast. Something
had been 'picking up the pic¬
ture of the girl next door, and
my set had merely acted as a
reflecting screen as the pic¬
ture was enroute to whatever
was picking it up.
I got up and went to the
telephone. I dialed three num¬
bers before I got my number,
then I said: “Madam, this is
the Acme TV Survey. Were
you tuned in on Gunsmoke,
this evening? You were? And
what was your impression of
the ending? Did it end satis¬
factorily? It did? Three peo¬
ple killed. Oh, I see. And
what program followed? My
Little Margie? And did you
56
FANTASTIC
see Margie taking a bath?
You did not? I’m sorry,
Madam, that’s the wrong an¬
swer. Better luck next time.”
I hung up and returned to
my chair. Apparently other
sets were receiving the regu¬
lar programs while mine had
become a super Peeping Tom.
On sudden impulse I turned
on the set again, then I turned
it off. Some skinny woman in
a coal-scuttle hat was doing
the black bottom to the rau¬
cous cacophony of a ragtime
band. In black and white. I
sighed and headed for bed.
Standing beside my bed, I
suddenly thought of the girl
next door sitting before her
TV set, and I hurriedly snap¬
ped out the light. Then I
snapped it on again, and set
the clock. I wasn’t going to
miss the girl next door when
she went to work. There were
a few questions I wanted to
ask her. Also, I wanted to
check the color of her eyes ...
They checked out blue, just
like the color of her bed¬
spread. But it was she who
asked the first question.
“Did you watch the comet
last night?” she asked, as we
waited for the bus together.
“The comet? And how! I
mean, yes, I did.”
“Does it really have two
tails? I looked for the second
tail last night just before I
took my bath, but I didn’t see
it.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
“What?” She looked blank.
“I know You didn’t see the
second tail,” I explained.
“Why didn’t I?”
“Because — because you
looked at it too early. It was
still dusk, and it wouldn’t
show up—that early.”
“How do you know I looked
at it early?”
“You just said so.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You said just before
your bath.”
“That doesn’t explain how
you knew it was early,” she
said in a puzzled tone. “I
could have taken my bath at
midnight.”
“That would hardly give
you time for your exer—”
“My what?”
“—rises,” I sighed. The
questioning wasn’t going at
all to my liking. First thing
I knew, she’d be suspecting
me of being a Peeping Tom.
And I didn’t want her to
think that. I stumbled on:
“Don’t all girls exercise to
keep their figures every night
before going to bed?”
“No, they don’t,” she said.
“But being a photographer’s
model, I have to.”
“I guess that’s how I
knew,” I ventured.
I MARRIED A MARTIAN
57
“It must be,” she said. “I
always draw the blinds before
I do my exercises.”
I grinned at her. “Thereby
forcing me to depend on my
TV set for entertainment.”
“Which is as it should be,”
she said tartly.
“By the way, what time are
you going to do your exercises
tonight?” I asked, injecting
what I thought was just the
proper note of humor into my
voice.
She entered into the spirit
of it immediately. “I’ll be in
full swing at ten o’clock, right
after my bath,” she said.
“Fine! I’ll be at my TV set,
tuned to channel Two.”
She grimaced. “That’ll be
one of those old-time shows.
You can have it!”
“It’ll be an old-time show,
all right,” I agreed. “They’re
not so bad as you might think,
sometimes.”
I hoped I wouldn’t be dis¬
appointed, because I had in
mind a whole series of elec¬
tronic tests I wanted to make.
“By the way,” I said. “Why
don’t you come over to my
place before you take your
bath and I’ll show you Arend-
Eoland’s two tails through
my telescope?”
“Oh, that would be excit¬
ing. I’d be more than interest¬
ed. You know, comets have
always fascinated me. Even as
a little girl, when I first
learned about the stars, I
thought of comets as sort of
street-cars in space, running
from solar system to solar
system. Keeping people wait¬
ing for centuries on corners.”
“You’re quite an astrono¬
mer,” I said wonderingly.
“Astronomer? Me?”
“Sure. You don’t believe
they’re made of ice either.”
“And you don’t believe they
are street-cars!”
“This one’s .got a head¬
light,” I said. “Just wait until
tonight, and you’ll see. More
logically a street-car than a
chunk of ice.”
“I’ll be there,” she prom¬
ised . . .
And she was. For two
hours we watched the comet,
and marveled at its two tails.
Then we turned on the lights.
“I have a theory about
comets,” she confided.
“What sort of theory?”
“Well, I read a story some¬
where years ago, where the
author described comets as
being ‘trams’; I guess he was
an English author, writing in
Punch, perhaps. Anyway he
solved the problem of carry¬
ing enough fuel to get from
one solar system to another
through interstellar space by
having the spaceships ‘hook
a ride’ on the comet which
58
FANTASTIC
happened to be going their
way—only he maintained it
didn’t happen that way, the
comets were actually on
schedules and on scheduled
routes. Some ancient race had
built them and set them on
their appointed courses. The
spaceships’ crew merely latch¬
ed onto the comet, then went
into suspended animation
while the comet took them
where they wanted to go—our
Sol System, for example—and
then dropped off when in the
vicinity of Earth. The comet
even automatically computed
their proper course as part of
its service.”
“You mean like this beam
of light this comet has—
pointing the way to ‘take off’
from the comet?”
“Yes. And do you know,
there has been a rash of
saucer sightings since this
comet came into our system?”
“There have? I read the
papers regularly, and I
haven’t seen any sudden
‘rash’ as you call it?”
“Oh, those things don’t get
into the papers any more. I
belong to a flying saucer club,
and we get all the reports
from other clubs all over the
world. It’s a really wonderful
system we have, and the gen¬
eral public doesn’t know much
about it. I think it’s so excit¬
ing!”
I MARRIED A MARTIAN
“In what way?”
“Well, don’t you feel that
it’s exciting to know we’re
being visited by super be¬
ings from outer space, out
where . . .”
“. . . where men are men,”
I finished for her.
“And where women love
it!” she finished for me grin¬
ning impishly as she said it.
I stared at her. “Do you
really mean you could go for
one of these . . . these saucer
guys? What makes you think
they’re so wonderful? Maybe
they are bug-eyed monsters
come-to eat pretty little girls
like you.”
“They aren’t. I know, be¬
cause I’m, well, attuned, you
might say. I . . . just . . . just
have a feeling, that’s all.”
“Woman’s intuition?”
“No, not that. It’s more a
‘sixth-sense,’ or rather an ele¬
vated spiritual realization—”
“You’re ... er ... at¬
tuned?” I asked.
She looked at me, and her
face began to redden. “You’re
scoffing at me ...” ■
“Not at all. I’m . . . well, to
put it frankly, I’m a little
piqued. Are we Earthmen so
mediocre, by comparison?”
She looked at me. “No, of
course not. As a matter of
fact, you’re quite nice.” She
hesitated. “Why don’t you
59
join our saucer club?” she
asked.
“I’m in right now! As long
as it doesn’t interfere with
my TV viewing during the
late show.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, with
a glance at her wristwatch.
“I’d almost forgotten. You do
want to watch Channel Two,
and I did say I’d be taking my
exercises by ten. Please for¬
give me for upsetting your
evening this way. I’ll try to
be more thoughtful next
time.”
“You do that,” I said.
“And don’t stint on your ex¬
ercises—that figure is some¬
thing you’ve got to take care
of.”
“Apparently!” she said.
“It must be sadly in need of
attention if it takes second
place to a Vitaphone movie!”
“Don’t worry about atten¬
tion,” I said. “It’ll get plenty
of that.”
“From the saucer men?”
she flashed.
“No,” I grinned. “From
me.”
“Want to look at more
comet tomorrow night?” she
asked, considerably less ruf¬
fled.
“I’d like to have you come
over,” I said. “But maybe we
don’t need to spend the whole
time at this eyepiece ...”
“And maybe later on we
can even cut in on the TV
viewing time?”
“Maybe. If you can furnish
a comparable entertainment.”
“Don’t you think I can?”
“Oh, I know you can, but
the question is, will you?”
She didn’t answer, but sud¬
denly I hoped desperately she
would. She liked me, that was
obvious, but I was head over
heels, suddenly. As good as
TV (the colored kind) was,
in the flesh she was so much
more. More than I’d counted
on.
I saw her to the door, then
raced back to my TV set. I
tuned in on Channel Two, and
waited until the queer geomet¬
ric interference began, then I
settled back to wait in a tizzy
of anticipation.
The interference came just
as it had the night before,
and in a moment I was
watching the girl next door
begin to disrobe. She didn’t
waste an hour in dallying
around, this time, but went
right into her bath and scrub¬
bed industriously. Then she
climbed out and picked up a
towel.
That’s when the new kind
of interference began. I rec¬
ognized it instantly. An air¬
plane was overhead. But it
must have been a rather
strange type of airplane, be-
60
FANTASTIC
cause the pattern was a bit
different. More delicate and
more complicated. I swore,
because the interference was
interfering with the picture.
It got slightly blurred. In¬
stead of going away in a few
seconds, as an ordinary air¬
plane interference should, it
got stronger, and then stayed
strong and constant, just as if
the plane had hovered over¬
head.
“Must be a helicopter!”
I exclaimed in irritation.
“What’s he doing hanging
around here?”
Suddenly it hit me. Maybe
here was the source of the
real Peeping Tom who was
responsible for the queer be¬
havior of my TV set! Some
new radar thing, maybe, that
some air-force scientist had
invented, and the pilots were
using it to spy on girls in
their bath!
“Why, the dirty ...” I
growled, and leaped over to
the window and looked up.
In the dark I saw some¬
thing, sure enough, but I
wasn’t prepared for what I
saw. Hovering over the girl
next door’s house was an ob¬
ject that looked not at all like
a helicopter, but most certain¬
ly like a flying saucer. It was
a flying saucer!
It was about forty feet in
diameter, shaped like two pie
I MARRIED A MARTIAN
plates put together, top to
top, and with a circling rim
around it that glowed with a
pale blue neon-like light. Atop
it was a canopy or cowling
made of some transparent
material, and atop this, a blue
light that kept pulsating in
time with the interference
pattern on my set. I glanced
back at it, saw that the girl
next door was just beginning
tier exercises.
When I looked back at the
saucer, a pale orange glow
was beginning to emanate
from the base of it, and
shone down on the house next
door. It went right through
the roof, it seemed, because
the roof somehow became
semi-transparent. Then I saw
a dim figure floating down
through the orange beam. It
was the figure of a man.
A saucer man! And sudden¬
ly desperate panic surged
through me. I knew all at
once that the girl next door
had more than good reason
to believe in her space visi¬
tors, but I had none of her
faith that they’d be wonder¬
ful harmless guys. This fel¬
low, I knew beyond all doubt,
was intent on only one thing
—kidnapping! He was after
my girl!
I raced to my gun cabinet
and grabbed a Luger that was
61
my prize. I rammed an am¬
munition clip home into it,
and ran like mad toward my
front door.
Outside I looked up at the
hovering saucer, just barely
visible in its soft blue and or¬
ange light, and then tore to¬
ward the house next door. I
stumbled up the steps, and
reached for the front door
knob. I turned it in a frenzy,
and nothing happened. The
door was locked.
In my mind’s eye, I could
see the saucer man grabbing
the girl—clutching her lovely
body in his ugly claws and
drifting back up through the
ceiling in his orange ray.
I went* nuts. I fired two
quick shots at the lock and
slammed the door open as the
lock fell into fragments. I
raced for the bedroom, found
the wrong room, then hit the
right one. As I slammed open
the door and careened into
the room, I saw that I was
right. The girl’s bare legs
were just disappearing up
through the ceiling, and as I
raced underneath, I leaped up
and grabbed. I caught one
ankle and hung on. And up I
went.
I heard her cry out in pain,
but I hung on grimly. A little
pain from my weight on her
leg would be nothing com¬
pared to being kidnapped into
outer space by some monster!
A second later I found myself
inside the saucer, all in a heap
with the girl sprawled across
me, and beside us, two
erect legs clad in shimmering
plastic - appearing leggings
and seamless trousers. I look¬
ed up, trying to get my gun
hand out from under the girl’s
soft body without scratching
her, and looked full into the
eyes of ... a very handsome
man. Whatever he was, this
saucer man wasn’t bug-eyed.
I struggled to my feet as
he stood unmoving, leveled
my Luger at him and snarled:
“Up with your hands, you
kidnapping saucerian! Or I’ll
blow you clean back to the
rings of Saturn!”
And all at once my gun
hand went limp. My gun
dropped to the floor, and I
stood frozen. The saucer man
had pressed something on his
belt, and a pale green ray had
enveloped me. I was helpless
as a baby.
“You might at that,” he
said. “If I’d let you.”
He smiled and the wind
went out of my sails.
The girl was standing now,
too, and she wasn’t in the
green ray. She stood there
naked as the day she was born
and didn’t seem even to be
aware of it. Instead she was
62
FANTASTIC
staring at the saucer man
with a very strange look in
her eyes.
I thought I recognized the
look. She was in some sort of
trance!
My rage came back, and
although I was physically
helpless, I could still use my
mouth. “You dirty devil,” I
raged. “You’re not going to
get away with this. You
Peeping Tom of a kidnap¬
per!”
His eyebrows lifted. “Peep¬
ing Tom?”
“Yes! Don’t think I don’t
know you’ve been spying on
this girl every night while
she takes her bath and does
her exercises!”
The girl turned toward me,
suddenly startled. It was ob¬
vious she wasn’t in any
trance.
“Spying on my bath and
exercises!” she said. “What
do you mean?”
“I mean this space man
...” I sneered the words,
"... has been spying on you
with some sort of super tele¬
vision—in color!”
“This is most interesting,”
murmured the space man.
“How did you know that?”
“Yes,” the girl repeated.
“How did you know? And
. . .” she turned to the space
man, “. . . were you?”
He nodded. “Of course. We
use our telerays to observe
the people we wish to study,
and many other instruments
too. It is how we determine
the spiritual values of those
we wish to help.”
“Spiritual values, my foot!”
I snapped at him. “It isn’t her
spiritual values you’re inter¬
ested in, it’s her body beauti¬
ful you’ve had your eye on!”
“And,” he said rather dri¬
ly, “I gather your eye has also
been on her body beautiful,
as you so aptly put it. But
what I’d like to know is
how?”
“I’ll tell you how!” I
raged at him, then suddenly
stopped, as I felt my neck
turning red. I turned and
looked at the girl whose body
beautiful was even more
beautiful than it had appear¬
ed on my television screen.
“Go on,” she said. “I think
your answer will be as inter¬
esting to me as to him.”
I decided to brazen it
through. “It’s not spying to
watch your own television
set. What do you expect me
to do when you come in in
full color taking your bath
and doing your exercises in
the privacy of my study-
turn off the set and go look at
a comet?”
She considered a moment,
then nodded. “Of course I
I MARRIED A MARTIAN
63
don’t,” she acknowledged. “If
that’s the way it happened,
you were entirely justified.”
She turned to the space
man. “How did it happen?”
“One of those freak elec¬
tronic things,” he shrugged.
“His set was attuned to my
ray, and picked up what you
might term an echo, or har¬
monic. Naturally it was in
color, because my ray picks
up the full spectrum, and
even more. I’ve been studying
you for some time, determin¬
ing whether or not you were
suitable to be my mate, and
go back with me to my
planet.”
“And was I ?” she asked in¬
tently.
“You were,” he said. “Emi¬
nently suitable.”
I gaped at him, then at her.
“You going to take that lying
down?” I gasped. “What a lot
of nerve, coming here, pick¬
ing out a wife, and then
carting her off without her
consent!”
“Without her consent?” he
asked.
He looked straight at her,
and his eyes seemed to bore
into hers. She looked back
with equal intensity, and then
she smiled. “Of course not,”
she said. “I am your spiritual
mate, and I will go wherever
you go.”
64
“Thank you,” he said. “We
never impose our will on any¬
body. I had hoped, and from
my study of you was sure,
that you’d agree to be my
mate.”
“You’ve got her hypno¬
tized!” I shouted.
“Nonsense,” she said. “If
you’d been a student of flying
saucers as I have, for these
last ten years, and were at¬
tuned as I am to outer space,
you’d know that any type of
coercion is beyond the space
people, and hypnosis would
be coercion.”
“I won’t let you go with
this guy,” I said in despair.
“I’m in love with you!”
She looked at me a moment,
then slowly began a sort of
undulating dance before me.
I stared, popeyed.
“It’s my body beautiful
you’re in love with,” she said,
halting her gyrations sudden¬
ly. “You see?”
I was groggy. “If you show
me any more, I’ll go out of
my mind. You can’t go off into
space with a perfect stran¬
ger . . .”
“You’re as much a stranger
as he,” she reminded me.
“We’ve only known each oth¬
er for about eighteen hours,
and spent only two of " those
together, mostly watching the
comet.”
“Speaking of the comet,”
FANTASTIC
said the space man, “we’ve
got to be on our way, or we’ll
have to wait for the next one,
and that’ll be two months
from now. But as for our
friend here, I have been
studying him, and I believe I
can offer him something to
look forward to. He is very
receptive, and attractive, and
I’ve just notified a certain
fellow planetarian of mine of
his existence. I am certain
that she will study him in the
near future, and if he should
pass the tests . . . well, I can
assure him that he will not
lack for beauty.”
“You mean ... we marry
a space woman?”
“All of us have certain
vibratory qualities which
make for perfect compatibil¬
ity,” he said. “Your people
sometimes call it being ‘soul
mates’; but actually it is pos¬
sible to have many such
mates. It just depends on
which one you contact first. I
have an idea that my friend,
who will arrive within the
next few months, has much in
common with you on the vi¬
bratory level.”
I noticed that the green ray
had gone out, and I moved
a hand experimentatively. I
wasn’t helpless any more.
But I didn’t jump him as the
inclination inspired me, in¬
stead I turned to the girl next
door.
“Do you really want to go
with him?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “If your
friend will show me the door,
I’ll be leaving. I’m not much
for coercion either.”
“You’re nice,” she said, and
suddenly stepped up to me
and kissed me long and
friendly on the lips.
“Good-bye,” she said. “And
keep on tuning in to the late
late show. I’m sure she’ll
come. I feel it, just like I felt
that someday my own space
man would come.”
“I hope you’re right,” I
said, starting to sink through
the floor. “If you’re not, I’m
going to see an awful lot of
corny movies!”
I didn’t have to see too
many. And by the way—if
you’re ever in my neighbor¬
hood, drop in for a meal.
Man—can those Martian gals
cook!
THE END
I MARRIED A MARTIAN
65
A CODE FOR
UNBELIEVERS
By G. L. VANDENBURG
ILLUSTRATOR: TANNER
I T WAS not an unusual day.
Just another ordinary
Monday.
New York went about its
business as usual. Crowded,
humid, noisy, belligerent, tur¬
bulent, indifferent . . . same
old New York.
The Crown Building on
Lexington near 4Srd was
dwarfed by two gigantic new
aluminum neighbors on either
side. Nothing different about
that. Its white collar army,
shuffling back and forth, in
and out, up and down, fur¬
nished life blood to a compli¬
cated network of corridors
and elevators.
Business as usual.
The Fitzgerald Agency was
the same. Still on the thirty-
third floor of the Crown
Building. Still 396 feet up ...
or down, depending on your
mental attitude. The account
executives were the same.
Nursing their ulcers, laugh¬
ing on the outside, crying on
the inside. Directors, casting
Here was a daring, new school
of thought. It turned paupers
into millionaires —
and vice versa.
personnel, illustrators, sales¬
men, accountants, secretaries,
receptionists ... all the same.
Business as usual.
Even Phil Staley . . . copy
writer, six years experience,
no promotions, seventy-five
bucks a week, low man on the
Fitzgerald Totem Pole Phil
Staley . . . was the same. At
least until noon. That was
when Charlie Mathews stroll¬
ed into the office. That was
when it began.
For at that moment ... in
an office, in a building, on a
street, in a city practicing
sameness . . . Charlie Mat¬
hews was different!
With unaccustomed flourish
he swept a chair to the side
of Phil’s desk, eased himself
into it and leaned back. A
stack of new accounts on
Phil’s desk provided a com¬
fortable cushion for his feet.
“Phillip, my boy, I have
made a decision. I am going
to make a million dollars!”
66
as if the building had sprung out of nowhere.
67
Phil Staley opened his
mouth to speak.
Charlie’s hand sprang up¬
ward in a stop motion.
“Uh-uh! Let the genius
continue, please. I am going
to make one million cool,
crisp, delectable dollars. And
I am going to do it in one
year! Three hundred and six¬
ty-five short, ordinary twen¬
ty-four hour days. End of
comment. Reaction, please.”
Phil Staley’s mouth stayed
open. There wasn’t much he
could say right off the top of
his head. This ivas Charlie
Mathews, wasn’t it? Fellow
copy writer, six year man, no
promotions, bored to death
with his job Charlie Math¬
ews ? Obviously it was.
No, by God, it couldn’t be.
Charlie Mathews had per¬
formed the same monotonous,
disgusting routine for six
years. Quiet, unassuming,
funny sometimes, but peren¬
nially apathetic. A man mak¬
ing a living, nothing else. No
future. No plans. Nothing.
Only this job that forced him
to invent praise for every¬
thing from underarm deodor¬
ants to DDT, candy to caviar,
soup to nuts. He hated it but
had resigned himself to it.
Prisoner of self-deprecation
Charlie Mathews, worry wart,
brooder, pessimist, tower of
indifference ... he just was
not capable of making a mil¬
lion dollars, not even saying
he was going to make it!
“I’m waiting for that reac¬
tion, old boy.” Charlie clap¬
ped his hands in front of
Phil’s blank face. “Wake up,
Phil. It’s morning. Come on
boy, look alive.”
“I’m not in a trance,” Phil
barked.
“You could have fooled me,
kid.”
“Do you know you’re two
hours late?”
“Indeed I do, Phillip. Do
you know I’m going to make
a million bucks?”
“You said that before.”
“I’ll say it again. I’m go¬
ing . . .”
“Never mind. What the hell
did you drink over the week
end?”
“Knowledge, Phillip, knowl¬
edge.”
“What proof?”
Charlie frowned mischiev¬
ously as he moved to his own
desk. “Oh, I’m a little worried
about you this morning,
Phil...”
“You’re worried about
me?”
“I can see you have no in¬
tention of taking my an¬
nouncement seriously,” He
sat on top of his own desk,
relaxed against the wall and
propped his feet up. “There-
68
FANTASTIC
fore I will have to con-
vin . . .”
“Charlie, get the hell off
your desk, will you?” Phil’s
face wore an apprehensive
expression. “The joint is
crawling with vice presidents
this morning. Suppose a squad
of them walks by the door!”
“I’ll tell them I’m going to
make a million bucks.”
“Oh, my God, will you come
off-that kick?” Phil moaned,
rose from his desk and closed
the door. He turned and
caught Charlie grinning like a
kid with a mouth full of jelly
beans. He went back to his
work-laden desk, exasperat- .
ed. “Look, Charlie, we’re up
to our necks today. We can’t
afford to make waves, you
know what I mean ? How
about forgetting that opium
den you’ve been to and com¬
ing back to work, huh?”
“No can do, Phil. I’m go¬
ing . . .”
“I know, you’re going to
make a million bucks. All
right, for chrissake, congrat¬
ulations!! Yuk, yuk! Joke
over. Now I’ll tell you one.
Old man Fitzgerald . . . you
know him, he’s the guy who
owns this agency . . . well, he
brought the United Steel Ac¬
count in this morning. And
His Grace desires a complete
booklet of institutionals be¬
fore five o’clock. That’s only
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
about four days work we
have to do in a matter of five
hours. Isn’t that a riot? Now
let’s put our degenerate heads
together before we find our¬
selves walking a plank.”
There was a cherubic de¬
light about the way Charlie
Mathews was enjoying his
new self. He was a leprechaun
and his desk was a velvet
pedestal and he was perched
on it with his knees folded up
close to his chin and his hat
sitting at a rakish angle with
the brim turned up. His
closed-mouth grin formed a
wide letter U from ear to ear.
There was no Fitzgerald
Agency and there was no
Crown Building. There was
only he and his pedestal rest¬
ing there three hundred and
ninety-six feet straight up
close to a cloud.
“Phil, you haven’t asked
me how I’m going to make
the million.”
“Charlie, the United Steel
Account ...”
“It’s a foolproof way, old
boy. You’d better listen.
You’re the only one I’m go¬
ing to tell.”
Phil regarded him with a
solemn stare. “Charlie, do
you mean to tell me this isn’t
a gag?”
“Of course it isn’t a gag.”
Phil lit up a cigarette and
69
settled back in his chair.
“What’s come over you all of
a sudden? I’ve never seen you
like this. You came into the
office with more energy than
trapped lightning. You act
like you have the world in
your hip pocket.”
“I have.”
, “It isn’t in a flask, is it?”
“Nope.”
“What’s happened to you
between Friday and today?”
“It isn’t something that
happened over a week end,
just like that!” Charlie snap¬
ped his fingers for emphasis.
“No, it’s been taking place
gradually over a six month
period. That’s why you
haven’t noticed it. But over
the week end is when I decid¬
ed I was ready to put it into
practice.”
Phil glanced at his watch.
The apprehensive look re¬
turned. “Okay, shoot. But
hurry it up. The sooner we
get at that United Steel busi¬
ness the safer our alleged jobs
will be.”
“Ever hear of the Univer¬
sal Subconscious Mind, Phil?”
Phil pursed his lips and
frowned. “Can’t say I have.
But let’s put it up for election
and see if it gets any votes.
What is it?”
“It’s what’s going to make
me my million.”
Phil flashed a patronizing
smile. “You’re in riddle-ville,
Charlie. Young Phil is still in
the dark.”
“The Universal Subcon¬
scious Mind is everywhere.
It’s me. It’s you. It’s every¬
one. And everyone can use it.
Every wish of every con¬
scious mind in creation is the
command of the Universal
Subconscious Mind. It not
only can but it does do every¬
thing the individual conscious
mind orders it to do. It’s the
most powerful creative force
in the Universe. And all you
have to do . . .”
“Charlie.”
“What?”
“Just tell me how you’re
going to make the million
bucks.”
“I don’t know hoiv I’m go¬
ing to make it. I just am,
that’s all. I have faith in my¬
self. I’ve made contact with
this great creative force...”
Phil’s fingers drummed the
top of his desk. He closed his
eyes and counted to ten in si¬
lence. His patience had been
violated.
“. .. you see, I went to this
party one night about six
months ago. And I ran into a
man called Professor Gould.
He’s the one who sold me on
the subject. You’ll have to
meet him, Phil . .
“Sure I will.”
70
FANTASTIC
“I talked with him through
the whole party. He had me
spellbound. He liked the way
I listened and told me I had a
very receptive mind. Then he
told me he had a small school
down in the Village and he
offered to take me on as a stu¬
dent. I turned him down. You
see, I wasn’t aware of how
many barriers I had placed in
the Subconscious Mind all
through my life.”
“How many what?”
“Barriers . . . obstacles.
Our whole lives are spent put¬
ting these barriers into the
Subconscious Mind. For in¬
stance, as far back as I can
remember—back to when I
was about three years old—
my father was always harp¬
ing about money. ‘The rich
get rich and the poor get
poorer.’ If the family went
through a period of bad luck
he’d say something like, ‘It
only happened because we’re
poor. It wouldn’t happen to
John D. Rockefeller.’ ”
Phil lit a fresh cigarette.
“So your old man was right.
What’s the point?”
“Yes, he was right, but not
the way you think. It wouldn’t
have happened to Rockefeller
because he didn’t think like
my father. I heard remarks
like that all my life and the
more I heard them, the more
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
I believed them; the more
barriers I placed in the Sub¬
conscious Mind. So when I
grew up I was afraid of suc¬
cess. Not consciously, you un¬
derstand. But over the years
I had dumped enough nega¬
tive thinking into the Subcon¬
scious Mind to create the
belief that success was unat¬
tainable. And, since the Uni¬
versal Subconscious Mind
obeys every order of the con¬
scious mind, sure enough suc¬
cess became unattainable!
And I grew worse as I went
along. I’d never be anything
more than a lousy copy writ¬
er, I told myself. I wouldn’t
get promoted because either
my luck was all bad or some
clerk-typist would get there
ahead of me. I wasn’t good
enough, nobody loved me,
whoever did anything for me,
too many people are smarter
than I am, and a hundred
other time-worn, petty ex¬
cuses — barriers — have kept
me from the greatest knowl¬
edge in the world—the source
of my own being and the im¬
mensity of my own power!
The recognition of myself.”
Phil rose and walked to the
closed door as though he was
afraid somebody might have
an ear tuned in. He turned to
Charlie. “Kiddo, you’ve really
gone off the deep end, haven’t
you? What the hell is this pro-
71
fessor Gould character ... a
psychiatrist or something?”
Charlie jumped off his desk
and guided Phil back to his
seat. He had gotten up a full
head of steam now and didn’t
want to stop. “Phil, I know
you couldn’t possibly begin to
grasp my whole meaning in
such a short time but just try
to understand this: There is
nothing that is impossible to
the mind of man—as long as
that mind is free, as long as
it isn’t cluttered with the
thought barriers of ten thous¬
and yesterdays. Because the
conscious mind controls our
Subconscious Mind and the
Subconscious Mind is all-
powerful! There is only-one
Subconscious Mind in the
Universe.”
His listener raised an eye¬
brow. “You mean I don’t have
one of my own ... all to my¬
self?”
“There is only one! You
have it. I have it. It belongs
to everyone.”
“And my Subconscious
Mind is the same one that’s
going to make you a million
bucks ?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re nuttier than a toll¬
house cookie!”
“Phil, listen to me. Every
condition, every manifesta¬
tion of your life can be
72
changed according to your
own conscious desires. I know
that and I’m going to prove
it. These barriers I spoke of
are put in the Subconscious
Mind through our own fears.
Fear is our greatest enemy.
But if we understand and ac¬
cept the existence of the Uni¬
versal Subconscious Mind, the
great creative force through
which we ourselves, by con¬
scious edict, are capable of
creating, then we can conquer
our fears. By their very na¬
ture they are insidious, there
is no valid reason for them.
There is no reason why we
cannot use our tremendous
power to improve our lives,
to create positive instead of
negative.”
“Thank you, Norman Vin¬
cent Peale. What say we get
back to the United Steel ac¬
count ?”
“Phil, let me introduce you
to Professor Gould. I know he
could help you.”
“I thought you said you
turned down his offer to at¬
tend his school.”
“I did, but a week later he
called me. It seems that by
being a good listener I im¬
pressed him as much as he did
me. He offered to give me pri¬
vate instruction.”
“Oh, I see. I begin to get
the picture.”
“I’ve been studying with
FANTASTIC
him two nights a week for six
months now. He’s had me
read about a dozen books on
the subject ...”
“All written by him, no
doubt.”
“He’s made me a different
man, Phil. I mean I’m ready
to fnove. I can smell that mil¬
lion bucks.”
“Charlie, just tell me one
thing. These six months of
instruction . . . did this pro¬
fessor guy by any chance
charge you any money for
it?”
“What the hell does money
mean to me?”
“It used to be a matter of
life and death.”
“But that’s what I’ve been
trying to tell you. I always
worried too much about
money. It became such an ob¬
stacle that I could never
achieve anything. But now,
with all the things I’ve learn¬
ed about myself, I’m going to
channel my resources in the
right direction. No more fear.
No more worry. From now on
nothing but results.”
“How much did you pay
him?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie
shrugged. “About fifteen hun¬
dred.”
“About all you had saved!”
“What difference does it
make?-I’m going to be a mil¬
lionaire.”
Phil slapped the desk with
his palm. “Oh, brother! I
have seen suckers in my time.
A-number One, first class
boobs! But you’re a blue rib¬
bon winner. You’re living
proof that P. T. Barnum was
a prophet!”
Charlie was visibly stun¬
ned. He hadn’t expected
Phil’s reaction to be so dis¬
tastefully outspoken. “Phil,
you’re being pretty arbitrary
about the whole thing, aren’t
you?”
“Arbitrary! Why the hell
should I listen to you tell me
how you got swindled by
some Village character?” Phil
shook his head and grunted.
“I gave you more credit than
that, Charlie. I should think
you’d have had enough sense
to stear clear of such an ob¬
vious phoney. The Universal
Subconscious Mind. What a
laugh! Did he tell you that
was supposed to be God? Did
he convince you that by be¬
lieving all this crap you’d
wind up with a reserved seat
in Heaven?”
Phil’s attitude was begin¬
ning to grate on Charlie. But
he determined to let his new
self keep command of the sit¬
uation. Calmly. Forcefully.
Resolutely. “Phil, look at that
sign on the wall. It says
‘Think/ You remember I
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
73
laughed like hell when I put
it up. And other people get a
kick out of it when they see
it. But it isn’t funny, Phil.
And you know why? Because
it’s true! For as long as I can
remember I’ve been nothing
but a Thinker!”
“And what, may I ask, is a
Thinker?”
“I hung that sign next to
my desk because of a Barrier
in the Subconscious . .
“Oh, my God!!”
“No, it’s true, Phil!” Char¬
lie insisted. “I had convinced
the Subconscious, through my
own fears, that I was inca¬
pable of thinking well enough
to make any progress in my
work. Of course the conscious
mind would never admit to
anything as abject as that, so
it provided me with a face¬
saving device. Whenever I
lapsed into a state of lethargy,
whenever I goofed, I could al¬
ways look at the sign and
laugh . . . feel better . . . kid
myself . . . reinforce the Bar¬
riers that were already grow¬
ing by leaps and bounds.”
“I know one thing, Char¬
lie,” Phil’s tone was sober
and firm. He looked his co¬
worker squarely in the eye.
“You’ve thrown up a few of
those damned barriers to all
form of common sense and
reason. I’d like to get it
through to you that every¬
74
thing you’ve said adds up to
one big crock-full of hogwash!
You’ll pardon me if I get
sick.”
“Let me take you to Pro¬
fessor Gould. I tell you, Phil,
he can help you.”
“Who the hell says I need
help! I like me the way I am.”
Charlie tossed his hands
up in despair. “Okay, if you
don’t buy it there’s nothing
more I can say. I guess you
won’t be convinced until I ac¬
tually have the money in the
bank.”
“I’m still curious about one
thing, Rothchild.” Now Phil’s
words dripped with sarcasm.
“How does this fabulous mil¬
lion bucks manifest itself? Do
you simply close your eyes
and make a wish ? And at the
end of three hundred and
sixty-five days your fairy god¬
mother shows up with a small
souvenir from Fort Knox? Or
do five-dollar-bills just trickle
in every ten minutes for a
year?”
“I never said I was going
to sit back and wait for the
money. That’s ridiculous. Fll
have to work hard and plan
for it. Now that I’m aware of
my own capabilities the first
step is to believe I’ll make the
money. And I do believe it,
Phil!”
Phil laughed. “You’ve got
FANTASTIC
to write one hell of a lot of
copy to make a million dol¬
lars, Charlie. One hell of a lot
of copy!”
The two men had had their
share of arguments before
this one. But always there
had been the ultimate, though
reluctant, capitulation by one
of them. Never a stalemate
like this. It was frustrating.
The discussion straggled on
but neither of them gave an
inch.
Phil yelped when he looked
at his watch again. It was
two o’clock. There was just
over two hours to prepare the
United Steel booklet. The sub¬
ject of Charlie Mathew’s mil¬
lion dollars was quickly
dispensed with. The two men
went to work.
Tuesday followed Monday,
same as always. New York
had- not changed. Neither
had Lexington Avenue. The
Crown Building resounded
with its usual hum of activity.
The Fitzgerald Agency, from
the ulcerous hierarchy to the
discontented lower echelon,
busily maintained the status
quo.
Phil Staley arrived at ten
o’clock as usual.
And again it remained for
Charlie Mathews to furnish
the -unorthodox.
“Fired!” Phil’s face was in-
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
credulous with wrinkles. His
wide open eyes were staring
straight into those of old man
Fitzgerald himself.
“That’s right, Phil. Could¬
n’t do the job. Don’t know
why I kept him this long.
New man coming in. Be
here in an hour.” Fitzgerald,
dressed from the pages of
Playboy, suave, a perpetual
smile on his lips, casually ad¬
justed his boutonierre. “Hen¬
derson. One of our clerk-typ¬
ists. Good man. Show him the
ropes, Phil.” He, glanced
around the office. “And while
you’re at it,” he pointed to
Think, “take down that stu¬
pid sign.”
Fitzgerald left the office.
Phil stared after him, then
took a deep breath and tried
to relax.
The advertising racket!
What a rat race! Charlie
gone. Fired. No apparent,
valid reason! A new copy
writer coming in. No expe¬
rience, green as chlorophyll
And not a kind word from
Fitzgerald about his own fu¬
ture ! It didn’t matter too
much. Phil was thankful he
didn’t get the axe along with
Charlie.
The United Steel account
had a lot to do with it, he was
sure of that. The booklet still
wasn’t completed. He’d have
to start working overtime,
75
arrive earlier, stay later.
Anything to show the old
man he was concerned, to
show his appreciation for not
being canned with his friend.
Poor Charlie! Not a dime
to his name since that profes¬
sor what’s-his-name fleeced
him. And now out of work
and possessed only of some
weird notion that he would
make a million bucks. What a
fool!
A few days later Phil tried
to call Charlie at home. He
was going to ask if there was
anything he could do to les¬
sen the blow. The telephone
company informed him that
Charlie’s phone had been dis¬
connected. Further investiga¬
tion disclosed that Charlie no
longer lived in the same
apartment. And he had left no
forwarding address. In a
matter of days Phil stopped
trying to find him. In a mat¬
ter of weeks Charlie Mathews
was a forgotten man.
The months passed with the
speed of a cannon being
pulled up Mount Everest.
Phil finished the United Steel
booklet. It was a good job.
Fitzgerald gave him a pat on
on the back and United Steel
gave Fitzgerald the credit.
The breaks of the game,
Phil told himself. There came
more accounts, each from a
different client, but all the
same. Phil found himself
snowed under. As his work
improved he found it neces¬
sary to put in more time. It
became imperative that he
impress Fitzgerald so that the
old man might see his way to
a promotion, to relieving the
drudgery of Phil Staley’s life.
But Fitzgerald was impossi¬
ble to please.
The longer and harder he
worked the more he yearned
to do something else. And as
his yearning piled up inside
him, all semblance of ambi¬
tion slowly deserted him and
he found it easier to believe
that anything . . . but any¬
thing . . . would be better
than the work he was doing.
Typing! Filing! Answering
phones! Anything to obtain a
final release from the writing
of insidious, phony, sick, pa¬
tronizing, dull copy!
One day his new co-writer
presented him with a small
sign as a gag. It read: “Think
... Or Thwim!” Phil sup¬
plied the appropriate, called-
for laughter and the sign was
given a prominent place on
his desk. But deep within
himself he was aware of how
rich and rewarding it might
be if, out of the three hundred
and sixty-five days in a year,
a man could laugh more than
once.
76
FANTASTIC
To be free! This was Phil
Staley’s dream. To escape
from the bondage of routine
and become an independent
spirit. To allow Time, the
giant watchdog that had fal¬
len asleep on him, to be once
again vibrant and alive and
have meaning.
It happened one year later,
almost to the day that Charlie
Mathews had been fired. It
was lunch time. The Crown
Building, vast reservoir of
white collars,, was emptying
itself for an hour’s respite.
Phil Staley . .. copy writer,
seven years experience, no
promotions, still low man on
the Fitzgerald totem pole . . .
was not hungry. Neither was
he of a mind to sit out the
hour at the agency.
He decided to go for a walk,
something he hadn’t done for
five years. He paused at the
entrance to the Crown Build¬
ing, unsure of which way to
go, but in a hurry lest some¬
one from the office spot him
and offer to share the lunch
table.
Lexington Avenue was im¬
possibly crowded. He walked
as far as 45th, then swung
west. He had no notion of just
where he was walking to. He
didn’t care. It could have been
White Plains, or Los Angeles
or China. But it wouldn’t be.
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
And the knowledge that it
wouldn’t be brought on a
kind of sadness in Phil
Staley. He might walk ten
blocks away from the agency,
but no further. No point get¬
ting back late from lunch.
Lots of copy to write.
Park Avenue was less con¬
gested. He seemed to remem¬
ber it always had been. It was
lined with trees and its build¬
ings were large and formi¬
dable and clean. There wasn’t
one that was hard to look at.
A bright, trim, aristocratic
thoroughfare.
He reached 49th Street.
There, on the southeast Cor¬
ner he encountered a blight
on the landscape. Ground
was being broken for a new
building. The man-made can¬
yon was a panorama of
cranes, steam shovels, trac¬
tors, great tons of earth and
bedded rock. Phil watched,
disinterested, for a few min¬
utes, then continued his
stroll.
On the northeast corner of
49th a new office skyscraper
had just been completed. The
last signs of workmen, finger¬
prints and chalk on the win¬
dows, sand in the crevices of
the sidewalk and a few scat¬
tered tools, marred its other¬
wise bright fagade. But soon
it would shed these birth¬
marks and take its place in
77
the overall picture. This was
progress, something Phil
Staley had always dreamed of
but had never attained.
He discovered that the
building had officially been
opened that morning. A small
booth had been erected out¬
side the promenade of revolv¬
ing doors. Two very pretty
young ladies clad in skin¬
tight costumes were handing
out souvenirs, miniature bot¬
tles of liquor, to every person
who entered the building.
Phil accepted one of the
tokens, smiled at the girls
and drifted inside. The build¬
ing' was ultra modern in
design. Sixteen tremendous
marble pillars graced its spa¬
cious lobby. He stood just in¬
side the revolving doors, star¬
ing in amazement at its
opulent beauty.
Suddenly he was curious
about the souvenir he had
received. It was a bottle of
champaigne. No doubt thous¬
ands of people would pass
through these portals today,
he thought. Pretty damned
extravagant gesture, whoever
was responsible for it. He no¬
ticed a fancy ribbon attached
to the bottle. There was writ¬
ing on it. He held the ribbon
out straight and read the
words: “Welcome to the
Mathews Building.”
The Mathews Building.
Phil Staley frowned. His eyes
came up slowly to view the
great marble lobby once
again. A quick glance back to
the ribbon. He laughed. Im¬
possible, he thought. Too fan¬
tastic to even contemplate.
And yet, for no fathomable
reason, he found within him¬
self an irresistible urge to
make sure. Incredible as it
was that a skyscraper could
ever have been named after
Charlie Mathews, he had to
find out! Even if it meant
making a fool of himself.
A quick check at the in¬
formation desk told him that
Mr. Mathews’ office was on
the 62nd floor. He found a
crowded express elevator and
announced his destination.
The floors sped by and Phil
began to feel uneasy. In the
first place Charlie had only
claimed he would make one
million dollars. This building
represented an outlay of at
least twenty-five or thirty
million!
Fortieth floor. The elevator
was less crowded.
In the second place the
planning and construction of
the building must have taken
at least a year. It would have
been necessary for Charlie to
come into a fortune within a
week after he’d been fired.
Not very likely.
78
FANTASTIC
Fiftieth floor. There were
only four passengers left, in¬
cluding himself. Probably all
executives. How Phil Staley
loathed executives!
In the third place he was
being foolish even giving old
Charlie the benefit of the
doubt like this. He didn’t be¬
lieve that nonsense about the
Universal Subconscious Mind
and, by God, he wouldn’t be¬
lieve it now! That’s all there
was to it!
Sixtieth floor. Phil was
alone now with the elevator
operator. There was no time
for further reflection. Only
seconds passed before the
operator opened the door
again.
“Sixty-second floor, sir. Ex¬
ecutive offices.”
Phil took short, faltering
steps. He was sure now that
he was making a horrible
mistake. The elevator door,
closing with a bang behind
him, jarred him.
A gorgeous brunette secre¬
tary, seated behind a plush,
triangular desk, came to her
feet and smiled.
“Welcome to the Mathews
Building, sir. May I help
you?”
“Oh, good aft. .. good aft¬
ernoon ... ah . . . I . . .
ah . .
“Whom did you wish to see,
sir?”
“Er . . . ah „ . . Math . . .
Charlie Mathews . .
“Whom shall I say is call¬
ing?”
Phil’s face blossomed into
an unabashed stare. “You
mean . . . Mr. Mathews is . . .
is really Charlie Mathews?”
“Yes, sir. Whom shall I say
is calling?”
“Huh? Oh . . . ah . . . Phil
.. . Phil Staley ...” His words
were barely intelligible.
The young lady picked up
a phone. Phil didn’t listen to
what she said. He was too
busy trying to convince him¬
self that it had to be a differ¬
ent Charlie Mathews. He
began to feel weaker.
Double doors opened. A
man entered. A smiling, ener¬
getic, this side of thirty-five,
young man with his hand out¬
stretched.
“Phil Staley, you old son-
of-a-gun! It’s good to see you,
boy! Come into the office and
have a cigar. Did you get your
souvenir down in front? Oh,
yes, I see you did. My God,
you don’t look a day older!”
Charlie Mathews, dressed
like a million, put his arm
around his dazed friend and
ushered him into a palatial
office. He eased Phil into a
soft, green leather armchair
and stuck a box of expensive
cigars in front of him.
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
79
“I’ve been meaning to get
in touch with you, Phil. Re¬
kindle the old friendship and
all that. But' I’ve been pretty
busy lately.” He stopped long
enough to see how Phil would
react. But Phil was too busy
gazing about at Wonderland.
“What have you been up to,
old boy? Still with Fitzger¬
ald? Still batting out the old
crumby copy?”
Phil nodded.
“That’s a damn shame,
Phil. The old geezer won’t
give you a promotion, huh?”
“Charlie . . .” he groped
for adequate words, “. . . it’s
really something . . . all this
. . . but how the hell did you
swing the money?”
“Best question anybody’s
asked me all day. My first big
break was getting fired from
the Fitzgerald office.”
“But you didn’t have any
money then ... I mean ...”
“That’s right, I was broke.
But I was also sick and tired
of everything that meant
work. So I said the hell with
it and cashed in an insurance
policy and went on a vaca¬
tion. Went duck shooting out
on the island. All alone. No
one to bother me. No copy to
write. No Fitzgerald ogling
me. Second day out I ran into
a guy who was having all
kinds of bad luck ... shooting
ducks, that is. I struck up a
conversation with him. Show¬
ed him a few tricks. Between
the two of us we bagged
twenty-one birds before the
day was over. He seemed like
a nice guy. I liked him. He
liked me. We talked some
more. Seems he had several
big business interests and was
on the lookout for a way to
kill some of his taxes. After
talking about it for a couple
of days he asked me if he
could use my name."
“What for?”
“Tax purposes. I’d be
strictly a front man, you un¬
derstand. He’d form a couple
of new corporations in my
name, invest, lose money for
a couple of years until his tax
situation became a little more
palatable . . .”
“And you agreed?”
“Sure! Why not? He as¬
sured me there’d be plenty in
it for me. Then he got the
bright idea of having all his
business interests centrally
'located. He decided to put up
this building in my name.
Have you given the place the
once over yet? It’s a real
white elephant, you know.
He’ll drop a fortune on it the
first four or five years. But
that’s the way he wants it, so
why should I care?”
“You mean you don’t own
the building?”
80
FANTASTIC
Charlie laughed. “That’s a
tough one, Phil. I don’t really
know. I’ve signed so damn
many papers in the last year
I don’t know what’s mine and
what isn’t. Except for the
money. Every cent I make
goes into the bank. I know
that’s mine.”
“Charlie...” Phil swallow¬
ed hard . . .
“What is it, Phil?”
“One old friend to another
. . . how much have you got?”
Charlie shrugged. “Well, I
haven’t checked at the bank
the last couple of days. About
a million and a half I guess.”
Phil sank into his chair, the
trance-like stare came over
his face again. “My God, it
worked!”
“What did you say?”
“You were right, Charlie!
The million bucks! It work¬
ed!”
The millionaire frowned.
“What worked?”
“The theory, the system,
whatever it was you called it
. . .” he couldn’t understand
why Charlie looked so puz¬
zled. “You remember that
argument we had about the
Universal Subconscious
Mind ...”
“Oh, that!” Charlie laugh¬
ed. “Yeah, I remember now.
That sure was a lot of crap,
wasn’t it?”
A CODE FOR UNBELIEVERS
“No, it wasn’t! It worked!”
“What do you mean it
worked? Are you crazy,
Phil?”
Phil was out of his chair.
“Charlie, you came into the
office that day ready to set the
world on fire. You had found
new belief in a thing called
the Universal Subconscious
Mind and you were going to
do wonders with it. You said
you’d make a million dollars
in one year. And you’ve done
it! And I stood there and
thought you were nuts. What
an idiot I was! Why couldn’t
I have believed it then?”
“Phil, you have gone out of
your ever loving mind. My
million bucks had nothing to
do with the Subconscious,
Conscious or any other part
of the mind.”
“But it had to! One year
and you’re a millionaire! How
else-can you explain it?”
“I can explain it very simp¬
ly. I was in the right place ...
at the right time . . . talking
to the right man . . . on the
right subject! That’s all!
There was nothing mysterious
or ethereal about it. Pure co¬
incidence and good luck!
Nothing else.”
“Charlie, how can you
stand there and deny it? I re¬
member the look on your face
that day. You didn’t have a
trouble in the world. You had
81
freed yourself and made con¬
tact with the infinite.”
“Oh, Phil, really!”
“You got fired. It didn’t
phase you. It sure as hell
would have bothered the old
Charlie Mathews. But getting
fired was part of your success
because Subconsciously you
knew you’d never make a mil¬
lion bucks working for Fitz¬
gerald. In the first place you’d
never have met this rich
man.”
“That’s right. Like I said
. . . coincidence! Look, you’re
the one who was right. I got
taken in by some Village
character. Cost me fifteen
hundred bucks. All I had
saved. I give the old guy cred¬
it. A great con man.”
“What was his name, Char¬
lie? Professor something or
other, wasn't it?”
“Yeah, he called himself a
professor. That’s a funny one,
isn’t it?” Charlie laughed.
“I’ll bet he’s worth a small
fortune himself.”
“What was his name!”
Phil insisted.
“I don’t know. Gray . ..
Gassner . . . something like
that . . . what the hell differ¬
ence does it make?”
“The guy showed you how
to make a million dollars and
you can’t even remember his
name?”
“Come off it, Phil! Nobody
showed me how to make a
million dollars. The guy talk¬
ed a great game. Universal
Subconscious Mind! Only one
in the Universe. It’s mine.
It’s yours. It’s everyone’s!
Baloney! One day opportunity
knocked and I make a million
bucks. That’s all!”
Phil was furious. He grab¬
bed Charlie by his shoulders.
“I’ve got to find him, Charlie!
I need him! Instead of listen¬
ing to you when I should have,
I allowed myself to fritter an¬
other year away. I don’t want
all my years to go that way.
I’m in a rut, just like you
were, can’t you see that?
Can’t you see it, Charlie!!
The Barriers are piled up a
mile high and I need help!”
Charlie led his shaken
friend back to the green arm¬
chair. “Sure, Phil, I under¬
stand. Now try to pull your¬
self together and relax. We’ll
have lunch together and have
a long talk. I’ll get you a good
job in this organization if
you like. In a couple of days
you’ll be able to thumb your
nose at old man Fitzgerald.
You’ll forget all about that
Subconscious Mind nonsense.
And what the hell do you
want to see that phony pro¬
fessor guy for? He’ll only
swindle you. You just put
yourself in old Charlie’s
82
FANTASTIC
hands. I’ll take good care of
you. Okay?”
“Yuh . . . fine, Charlie.
You’re a real good friend.
Thanks.”
Professor Gould was slight
of build, wore black horn¬
rimmed glasses and his face
poked through a jet-black van
Dyke beard.
He hurried from his kitch¬
enette, through his studio, to
acknowledge the insistent
ringing of his bell. It was one
o’clock, a rain soaked morn¬
ing, and he had been expect¬
ing no visitors.
He opened the door and
looked quizzically at his caller,
a young man drenched from
head to foot and obviously
tired.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Pardon me, are you Pro¬
fessor Gould?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been trying to locate
you for a week. My name is
Phillip Staley. I’d like to talk
with you. . . .”
THE END
83
EARTH SPECIMEN
Being the diary of a man who learned, first-hand
about some people from outerspace. They wanted to
learn about him, too. And they were going to suc¬
ceed—even if they had to use a butcher knife.
By GERALD VANCE
ILLUSTRATOR: SUMMERS
Entry — Sunday, September
29—
I BOUGHT this diary last
December 31st to maintain
a more conscientious account
of my personal life, which I
had been neglecting because
of my duties as a teacher. I
now note that the pages be¬
tween January 1st and Sep¬
tember 28th are blank. It
would seem another excellent
indication of what the road
to Hell is paved with!
Now, however, there is
ample time and reason to
start keeping a record. I have
reached a turning point. I
have started a new life.
I arrived in Triangle this
morning. It is a small town
on the banks of the Kennebec
River in Northern Maine. It
appears to be a lumber town.
There are two huge mills and
the river is full of floating
pulp wood.
The people (I’ve met only a
dozen or so) are strangely
complacent and reticent. They
conduct their business with a
razor-sharp awareness and
a self-assurance that is close
to chilling. The people seem
naturally wary of any stran¬
ger.
Even so I am looking for¬
ward to my first day in school
tomorrow. I must say it feels
good to be away from Bos¬
ton’s metropolitan school sys¬
tem. It was always very
disheartening being just an¬
other teacher among ninety-
seven at the Bentley School.
Never a sense of importance,
of really belonging. Always
the belief that if “old Bob
Bellinger” were to “kick the
bucket,” as they say, nobody
would ever miss him.
But here in Triangle I’m to
be the head of the school sys¬
tem. It may be a tiny opera¬
tion compared to any in
Boston but that’s so much the
better as far as I’m concern¬
ed. (That sense of impor¬
tance!) Besides, I would have
84
The invaders had no time to wait for birth and growth.
85
been a fool to turn down this
job in view of the abnormal
amount of money it offers.
Nine o’clock. Time to retire.
I look forward to the new
day.
R.B.
First Report: September 29:
To: Intelligence Comman¬
dant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
Male human. Approximate¬
ly thirty-five Earth years.
Name, Robert Bellinger.
Acquisition of the subject
was simple once a method
was evolved. Analysis-Base
Triangle made initial over¬
ture what is termed “reg¬
istered mail.” Subject’s reply
was negative. Acting on the
suggestion of our operative
Loda, who has done consider¬
able research on the matter, a
second overture was made in
which our initial monetary
offer was quadrupled. The
speed of the subject’s reply
was astonishing.
Subject arrived on sched¬
ule this morning. Analysis
will proceed tomorrow. He is
tall, moderately well con¬
structed, has fair complexion,
even temper and seems con¬
tent to be here.
The “School” he is to
“teach” will consist of ten
psychpenetrators, model ZBY-
6742. Each Synthetic will
penetrate a different avenue
of the Subject’s being. Find¬
ings will be immediately
channeled to the Executive
Council as per your orders.
End of Report From:
Rodor, Commandant
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Monday, September
30—
The first day of school is
over. I must say it has left me
in a complete state of con¬
sternation. I grossly over¬
estimated the size of the
school system. I had anticipat¬
ed a minimum of seventy-five
students. There are only ten!
I have no objection. But the
number does cause me to
again wonder why they are
parting with such a generous
salary. I would like to think
it is because they could not
find a better teacher any¬
where, however, I’m aware of
my own limitations, thank
God. So I will stop wondering
and be content with the easy
life.
The students are the an¬
swer to a teacher’s life-long
dream. There are seven boys
and three girls, ranging in
age from twelve to eighteen.
I have never had the privi-
FANTASTIC
lege of working with such
conscientious, such mentally
adept children in my life.
They are capable of grasping
the most difficult subjects
with the greatest of mental
ease.
And they are not afraid to
ask questions! One of the
most annoying drawbacks
with most school children is
their continual inclination to¬
ward silliness whenever they
have to ask a question. But
not these Triangle students.
They want to know!
And the area of their
curiosity knows no boun¬
daries. They ask serious,
provocative, penetrating ques¬
tions. Today most of their
questions concerned me. Be¬
lieving that mutual under¬
standing is a prime prerequi¬
site for good student-teacher
relations, I answered their
queries freely and forthright¬
ly.
Before I forget it there is
something about the students
. . . and the townspeople . . .
that puzzles me. It’s the way
they speak. Here I am in in
Northern Maine and no one
I’ve met has that familiar
Down East twang. I particu¬
larly noticed it with the stu¬
dents today. They began most
of their questions with “May
I inquire of you, Mr. Belling¬
er ...” or “I would like to ask
you, Mr. Bellinger . . .” Now
in the speech pattern that is
common to all Maine Yankees
the word “inquire” would
have sounded like “inqui-ah”
and my name would have
sounded like “Bell-in-ja.”
I don’t suppose there is any
law that says a group of peo¬
ple who live in Maine must
speak with Maine accents.
But it does seem strange.
Now that I have recorded
these thoughts I am going to
utilize the rest of this eve¬
ning thinking about Rayn.
And at the moment she is
none of this diary’s business.
R.B.
Second Report: September
30:
To: Intelligence Comman¬
dant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
The first day of “school”
was moderately successful.
Subject’s answers to ques¬
tions followed a logical pat¬
tern with one exception. He
seemed emotionally distraught
when questions were posed by
psychopenetrator Rayn.
According to all available
data, unless the Subject was
suspicious, this should not
have happened! Orders were
issued to send Rayn through
87
EARTH SPECIMEN
Flaw Extinction Process.
Findings were negative. Rayn
was operating in “school” at
maximum efficiency.
Therefore Subject cannot
be suspicious.
That leaves the reason for
Subject’s reaction a mystery
to us at this moment. Conse¬
quently tomorrow’s program
will be altered for the sake
of a solution. Mass concentra¬
tion upon the Subject will be
temporarily abandoned. Only
psychopenetrator Rayn will
pose questions. The remain¬
ing nine models have been ad¬
justed for Emotionalysis of
the Subject. The third report
will contain a comprehensive
answer to this enigmatic side
of the Subject.
Summarization of first
day’s questions will also be
included in Third Report.
End of Report From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Tuesday, October
1st —
I find it impossible to stop
thinking about Rayn! I can¬
not help mentioning her now,
even though there might
be unfortunate implications
should her name be seen in
my diary.
She is the most exquisitely
beautiful creature I have ever
seen. She has only to lift a
finger, to speak, to close her
eyes, to breathe and I am en¬
raptured, elevated to a Utopia
I never knew existed. Hers is
the smile of the world and I
want desperately to reach out
and touch the sunlight on her
lips.
I am being childishly ro¬
mantic but I don’t care. I have
known this lovely girl for
only two days and I am al¬
most twice her age. But
neither of these factors dis¬
turbs me because I am almost
certain she shares my feel¬
ings!
Today something miracu¬
lous happened' (at least I put
it down as a minor miracle).
Rayn was the only student
who asked any questions!!
The others just sat there!
They paid due attention when
I was speaking and they had
comments to make concerning
what I said. But not one of
them displayed that admir¬
able curiosity they had shown
yesterday! It was almost as if
these amazing students were
aware of my inner feelings
and had magnanimously band¬
ed together to play cupid.
I was very grateful to
them, although I’m not at all
sure of the accuracy of my
answers to Rayn’s questions.
I was far too grateful, mere¬
ly exchanging words with
FANTASTIC
her, to pay much attention to
the content of what she was
saying. I hope I made some
degree of sense.
I have never known love be¬
fore. Neither have I ever
known this surging, uplifting
feeling I have experienced
these two days. If love has at
last entered my life I must,
due to the age difference, etc.,
be careful to exercise extreme
caution.
Good night, Rayn! Good
night, good night . . .
R.B.
Third Report: October 1:
To: Intelligence Commandant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
Second “school” day proved
interesting if not complete¬
ly fruitful. Psychopenetrator
Rayn posed ' questions while
other nine models conducted
Emotionalysis of Subject for
second consecutive day.
It is now apparent that our
error at the initial session
was assigning Psychopenetra¬
tor Rog to record the Sexual
Impulse phase of the Sub¬
ject’s being. The Model Rog
is constructed on a parallel
with a male human. Today’s
session disclosed that the Sex¬
ual Impulse phase can be com¬
pleted only when the probing
EARTH SPECIMEN
is being recorded through a
female model such as Rayn.
However, in spite of these
new facts, the Subject expe¬
rienced increased emotional
disturbances while conversing
with Rayn! It is certain that
he is sexually attracted to her
but that fails to account for
why he is so emotionally dis¬
traught. Something is hap¬
pening inside the Subject that
has so far managed to elude
our most advanced methods
of mental and physical infil¬
tration. We will continue to
work diligently to discover
what it is.
In the meantime, for your
immediate disposal, here is
the summary of the first
day, nine Psychopenetrators
(Model ZBY6742) reporting
ninety-one percent accurate
results (Rayn, of course, be¬
ing excluded).
Physiology — Subject’s re¬
plies proved that efforts to
obtain average human speci¬
men had been successful.
Overall health is good. Age
expectancy of seventy Earth
years does not compare fa¬
vorably with our own one
hundred - twenty - five. How¬
ever, our Spectrans Statisti¬
cians hold that colonization
would be feasible through an
efficiently controlled system
of mass reproduction.
Physical Stamina —.002- :-
89
3:1—this figure, according to
Psychopenetrators, would not
vary more than :1 to :4 if
every member of the species
was tested. No deterrent to
colonization.
Mental Aptitude— By Arc-
turus standards, backward.
By Earth standards, above
average. By Subject’s stand¬
ards, bordering on genius. No
deterrent.
Mental Stamina — Subject
is harassed by anxieties,
mostly of an infantile nature.
Examples: darkness, high al¬
titudes, unrestricted power,
the unknown and certain
four-legged mammals. The
mere sight of an unarmed
Galaxy Cargo Vessel might
easily cause him to panic.
Surprise armed invasion
might defeat colonization
plan.
Intellect —Negligible. War¬
fare on this basis would re¬
sult in early disintegration of
brain tissue. Inadvisable.
Religion — Backward. The
time-worn one- God theory.
Known variously as The Al¬
mighty. The Supreme Being,
The King of Kings, The Ab¬
solute, The Creator of All
Things, The Infinite, The
Eternal, etc. Most prevelant
flaw; Subject envisions God
in his own image!
Culture — Backward.
Thwarted for the most part
by Religion. Creativity, for¬
mation of new ideas, thought
patterns, accomplished by a
fraction of species mostly
isolated from dogmatic doc¬
trine of religion.
Sexual Impulses —As noted,
findings incomplete at this
time.
Resistance —From point of
view of the Subject (and
therefore of the species) —
formidable. On the basis of
information thus far obtained
negligible.
Further tests are being
temporarily halted until Sub¬
ject’s mysterious emotional
disturbances are accounted
for. Orders have been issued
to have Rayn stripped of
Standard Functional Waves.
She will be equipped with De-
cepto-Ray Unit ZBY6742.o8
(Magnitude .0032:5:7) and
will be granted limited free¬
dom. The other models must
remain in school, on a non¬
functional basis, in order
that the Subject not become
suspicious.
End of Third Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Wednesday, October
2 —
I must be careful! I know
now that I am deeply in love
90
FANTASTIC
with Rayn! I experienced this
confirmation the moment she
first looked at me in class this
morning. It was a strange,
ethereal sensation. There was
a warm, enveloping softness
in her eyes that seemed to
speak to me and say, “yes,
Robert, you are mine and I
am yours . . . eternally. Love
me, Robert. Love me!” She
continued to stare at me,
adoringly, from her seat. I
was her Apollo, standing ma¬
jestically on Mount Olympus,
poised for direct flight into
her arms!
I forced myself to look
away from her. There were
the other students to think
about. There was no telling
which of them might be prone
to telling tales out of school.
I was utterly shocked to
discover that I had been look¬
ing at Rayn for over an hour!
How could this be! I must be
sick with love, I told myself.
It w>as understandable enough
to gaze upon perfect beauty
for an hour but to do it to the
complete neglect of the other
students! How stupid could I
be?
My shock was compounded
when I discovered that the
students were paying no at¬
tention. Every last one of
them was busy writing in
their notebooks, behaving as
though Rayn and I did not
exist. I was certain this was
probably a discretionary
move on their part so I ques¬
tioned several of them. It
seems incredible but I am
positive they noticed nothing
out of the ordinary!
What a curiously complex
group of children!
But still I must be careful!
I know I am in love with her
. . . hopelessly, for all time.
And I know she loves me. But
the classroom must not be a
scene of consummation. I
must find a way to see her
alone, to talk with her . . .
finish later, someone knock¬
ing at door . . .
R.B.
Fourth Report: October 2:
To r Intelligence Comman¬
dant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
Third “school” day pro¬
duced only partial results.
Subject’s emotional disturb¬
ances remain, for all practical
purposes, incomprehensible.
Psychopenetrator Rayn
performed with maximum
efficiency in exercising Mag-
nowave control over nine
other models who were mere¬
ly in attendance on Non-
Functional basis. Subject sus¬
pected nothing.
For further concentrated
91
EARTH SPECIMEN
probing of the Subject Rayn
was equipped with Decepto-
Ray Unit (Adjusted to maxi¬
mum power, a minor devia¬
tion from original plan).
We regret to report that
Decepto-Ray Unit failed to
achieve better than ten per¬
cent effectiveness. Subject
was placed in a state of Illu¬
sion for one hour. But grad¬
ually he built up a resistance
and was finally able to extri¬
cate himself. Herewith, the
results of that hour:
Subject fell under'Rayn’s
spell. She immediately utilized
Decepto-Ray Unit at maxi¬
mum power. Subject entered
state of Illusion, responded
satisfactorily. However, this
lasted only a few moments be¬
fore resistance set in. Rayn’s
Emotionalysis Graph, as with
all such graphs, records only
individual horizontal lines.
After "school” when the
graph was studied it was a
labyrinth of connected verti¬
cal, horizontal, diagonal and
curved lines! Whatever these
emotional disturbances they
are capable of upsetting not
only our instruments but the
subject himself. Subject’s
heart beat soars to an aston¬
ishing speed—fast enough to
cancel even the strongest of
our race! His nervous system
and blood stream behave in a
quivering, frenzied manner.
His mind seems to be in a
swirling state. Any clear
thoughts he may be having he
gets from us.
Ordinarily these reactions
might be attributed to the
subject’s fears. But we have
discounted that theory for ob¬
vious reasons. The “school¬
room” is not dark. It is in a
one-storey building and there
have been no four-legged
mammals present. The Sub¬
ject has no knowledge that he
is in the presence of the Un¬
known and of unrestricted
Power.
Another plan has been de¬
vised. On the theory that the
Subject strongly desires Rayn
sexually, it is possible he
wishes to be alone with her.
The presence of nine other
“students” in the “school¬
room” naturally presents an
obstacle. Possibly a fear of
being discovered by the other
students was the reason for
his invulnerability to Decep¬
to-Ray. It would be unwise to
remove “students” from
“school.” Therefore it has
been decided to allow Rayn to
visit Subject’s quarters.
Results of this plan will be
relayed to you with the ut¬
most dispatch.
End of Fourth Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
92
FANTASTIC
Entry — Thursday, October
3 —
It is morning. Seven o’clock.
School has not yet begun. For
the first time I don’t really
look forward to it. I have not
slept. But I have seen her
alone! Here in my quarters
last night. As if final proof of
her love were needed she
chose to visit me, uninvited,
to offer that proof.
Three glorious hours to¬
gether ... laughing, talking,
adoring each other . . . every
moment golden, precious . . .
resenting only Time, the si¬
lent chaperone that would
perform its inevitable duty
and pull us apart . . . until a
new dawn approached and
brought us together again,
another day with her.
At two o’clock she had to
leave.* I walked with her to
the door. She put her arms
around me. Her face was
close to mine and she closed
her eyes. Her mouth . . .
warm and moist, gently pam¬
pered my cheeks, my ears, my
neck. Her lips opened and
blended with mine . . . and
her kiss continued for a mil¬
lion radiant years . . . until
she took leave of my arms ...
infinite sorrow . . . but only
for a few fleeting hours.
I must leave for school
now . . . for Rayn ... my
EARTH SPECIMEN
darling ... my love . . . sweet
love . . . everlasting love....
R.B.
Fifth Report: October 3:
To: Intelligence Comman¬
dant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
In the privacy of Subject’s
quarters Psychopenetrator
Rayn’s Decepto-Ray Unit was
able to determine the reason
for the emotional disturb¬
ances. The Subject is “in
love” with Rayn. According
to our most advanced analyti¬
cal instruments this does not
indicate that the Subject is
motivated solely by physical
desire. It merely confirms our
earlier suspicions about the
Sexual Impulse phase and
solves the reason for the dis¬
turbances.
Hence the mystery remains.
We still do not know what
causes the disturbances, nor
do we know from which part
of the Subject they emanate.
Consequently they cannot be
categorized at this time.
The Decepto-Ray, once it
has transferred a Subject
into a world of illusion, has
always been one hundred per¬
cent effective. Yet this Sub¬
ject has succeeded in render¬
ing it less than fifty percent
93
effective, apparently with the
aid of this something called
“love.”
If this “love” is a manifes¬
tation of mental power we are
not aware of its potentiality
at this time.
You are strongly urged to
contact the Executive Coun¬
cil and recommend that the
plan for colonization be sus¬
pended until “love” can be
broken down and examined.
We are abandoning all tests
of the Subject at “school.”
Rayn will be given more time
alone with the Subject.
End of Fifth Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Thursday, October
3 ( Continued ) —
Classes proceeded smooth¬
ly. Rayn and I decided last
night to be extra careful
about paying too much atten¬
tion to each other. The stu¬
dents were quiet, attentive,
conscientious as always.
I am waiting for her now.
I try to hasten the seconds
until I can look upon her love¬
liness framed in my doorway
—but Time, the militant
patriarch, grants no favors.
There are many problems
to be settled tonight. And I
want to settle all of them!
Then we can be together—
united—no outside pressure,
no parents to worry about, no
fear of being the subject of
whispers—just the two of us
—with each other always—
Hurry, Rayn—hurry, hurry!
R.B.
Entry — Friday, October U —
Morning has been upon us
for an hour—but day has not
yet come alive.
Now golden sunshine melts
on my darling’s lips . . . glis¬
tens through her velvet
brown hair . . . tender, sleep-
filled eyes . . . half opened
now . . . reflecting pools of
love . . . filled with the won¬
der of life ... a smile . . . the
room is brighter, gayer ... it
lives! Rayn is awake!
She has gone to “school.” I
must also leave soon but these
reflections are vitally impor¬
tant !
Am I a fool to have allowed
last night to happen? I don’t
know. What frightens me is
that I don’t care. She is an
exotic creature! No other like
her exists in the universe. I
know that as surely as I know
I love her!
We settled none of the
problems last night. If any¬
thing we compounded them.
There was no hurry, she said,
to discuss anything with her
94
FANTASTIC
parents. When the time comes
they will fully understand.
And the way she said it made
me believe it. How could the
two people who bore this gift
of God fail to understand, I
asked myself.
According to the “school”
records she is only eighteen.
But records are merely statis¬
tics. And statistics are hard,
indifferent, impervious facts
on a piece of paper. Once,
after a summer rain, I was
mesmerized by the beauty of
a rainbow rising out of Lake
Whalom and arcing itself
across the mid-afternoon sky.
I did not need the available
statistics on rainbows in or¬
der to appreciate it. The same
is true of Rayn. She is world¬
ly, vibrant, she is from yes¬
terday, from a classic mold.
It seemed strange for a
time that she never mention¬
ed love, never said “I love
you.” But it is no longer
strange. Love is all around
her. Her eyes whisper love,
her touch manifests it, her
kiss ignites it.
The ecstasy of. last night
was like nothing I have ever
experienced. With the limited
powers of my own imagina¬
tion it is difficult to recapture.
She brushed her cheek against
mine ... and her kiss found
my eager mouth . . . and the
sensation . . . was instantane¬
ous, rhapsodic ... a symph¬
ony of strings swept all other
sound out of existence ... I
saw Rayn . . . my wife . . .
there was a farm . . . shaded,
protected by the waving
branches of giant, languid
elms . . . there was the clear,
fresh smell of new mown hay
. . . together on our farm . . .
Rayn framed against the
horizon . . . her hair, velvet-
soft, resisting the violent
wind of New England’s Octo¬
ber . . . the day’s chores com¬
pleted ... the haze of dusk...
then running, running over a
breathtaking stretch of open
field . . . running and laugh¬
ing . . . falling to the rich
earth that we both cherished
and was ours . . . making love
under the open sky . . . un¬
ashamed . . . deeper, deeper
into the abyss of love . . .
Rayn and me . . . forever_
I did not dream these
things. It was not my imag¬
ination. I saw and heard and
felt them. I was there! Expe¬
riencing the fulfillment of
love. This is the cycle come
full for the first time! Con¬
tentment, created at birth,
abused in adolescence, lost in
puberty, craved and sought
after in adulthood and redis¬
covered with love and under¬
standing. This I believe. And
Rayn believes it too!
R.B.
EARTH SPECIMEN
95
Sixth Report: October U:
To: Intelligence Comman¬
dant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
Urgent this report reach
Executive Council immediate¬
ly!
A grave emergency has
arisen ! Psychopenetrator
Rayn is “in love” with the
Subject! This turn of events
has our technicians and in¬
struments in a state of utter
confusion.
It is beyond the realm of
possibility for a Psychopene¬
trator to break down. Yet it
has happened! Rayn returned
from Subject’s quarters this
morning talking incoherently
about the magic of “love.” At
first we thought that her mis¬
sion had been one hundred
percent successful. However,
as she continued to rave
about “love” and resist all
questions put to her, we soon
recognized that something
was drastically wrong. The
technical staff went to work.
In a matter of minutes they
issued the remarkable state¬
ment that Rayn’s Decepto-
Ray Unit had been inverted.
Yes, inverted!! The Decepto-
Ray had succeeded in trans¬
porting the Subject into a
beautiful world of Illusion
and then, contrary to its
own technical perfection, had
transported Rayn into that
world with the Subject! It
thereby inverted itself and
was able to supply us with no
information other than the
content of the Subject’s and
Rayn’s illusions. That of
course was of no value what¬
ever.
We then decided that if
Rayn had truly been instilled
with this “love” that we
should be able to locate it.
Rayn was taken apart, prob¬
ed, checked, re-checked, every
component tested and ana¬
lyzed. We found nothing!
It was logical to assume,
though, that when re-assem¬
bly was completed she would
be back to normal. We receiv¬
ed another shock. She was re¬
assembled and asked her
name. Her reply: “lam Rayn
and I am in love with Rob¬
ert.”
Incredible is the only way
we can describe today’s
events. Rayn is being isolated
from the “classroom.” We
are doing this for two reas¬
ons. In order to keep her un¬
der constant pressure of
interrogation. And isolation
from the Subject may prompt
his “love” to manifest itself
in some form that we are pre¬
pared to deal with.
96
FANTASTIC
Reports will be dispatched
simultaneously with new re¬
sults.
End of Sixth Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Friday, October U
( Continued) —
She didn’t come to “school”
today! I can’t figure out why.
She left my quarters one hour
before “school” was due to
start. She can’t have gotten ill
in an hour!
• I think I’m developing a
guilt complex. I’m still certain
the other students do not
know about us. And yet I
didn’t dare ask any of them
if they had seen her for fear
that an answer might be ac¬
companied by a sly and know¬
ing grin. I continued to grow
uneasy.
I’m sure she’s all right. I
pray she is. More than likely
I’m worrying over nothing.
She’ll come to my quarters to¬
night and explain her ab¬
sence. I’ll tell her how I wor¬
ried and how many illnesses
I imagined and we’ll both
have a good laugh.
R.B.
. . . maybe I should phone her
to make sure she . . . no . . .
not a very wise idea. . . .
R.B.
Seventh Report: October 1*:
To: Intelligence Commandant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
Interrogation of Rayn con¬
tinues, She seems no longer
capable of making any sense
whatever. It was learned that
Subject keeps a log of daily
events. This log was obtained,
while Subject was in “school,”
by our operative Loda and
put through Optoscope for
immediate scrutiny.
It is a childish book con¬
taining very little logic. On
the chance that it may have
been in code the log then un¬
derwent a Unicipher Exam¬
ination. It contained even less
logic. There are myriad ref¬
erences to “love” which still
remains a mystery.
Interrogation of Rayn will
now be simultaneous with a
concentrated drive by our re¬
search analysis to solve “love”
—if not the cause of it, at
least the meaning. We are
confident of success.
End of Seventh Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Saturday, October 5:
Something dreadful must
have happened! She was due
EARTH SPECIMEN
97
here at ten o’clock last night.
It is now three in the morn¬
ing and no word from her.
I have a dull ache in the pit
of my stomach. We have been
found out, I’m sure of it!
Somehow her parents have
learned. . . .
I mustn’t think this way!
What if they do know? We’ve
done nothing to be ashamed
of! I’ll tell them that ... of
course! The only right thing
to do is to see her parents and
explain to them how I feel...
tell them my intentions are
highly honorable and then
prove it by asking her to
marry me. . . .
I wish she would call first
... it would help to know ex¬
actly what frame of mind her
family is in . . . that ache in
my stomach refuses to go ...
Maybe she’ll show up after
all ... I don’t know ... I
don’t know ... I pray. . . .
R.B.
Eighth Report: October 5:
To: Intelligence Commandant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89:
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
For Executive Council —
Urgent!
At approximately ten
o’clock (2:70 Arcturus Time)
last night, after cooperating
with interrogation for twelve
hours, Psychopenetrator Rayn
began to cause trouble. She
arbitrarily insisted that the
interrogation was over and
that she be allowed to leave.
When permission was re¬
fused she became violent.
Three other Synthetics were"
summoned to physically sub¬
due her. She was then placed
under close guard.
At approximately four
o’clock (1:20 A.T.) Psycho¬
penetrator Rayn escaped!
The door to her cell had been
demolished. The three ■ Syn¬
thetics that had stood guard
were in prone positions on the
floor. Each had somehow been
demagnetized and thus ren¬
dered totally helpless.
Shortly after the escape it
was learned that a Decepto-
Ray Unit was missing!
These actions are, of
course, unprecedented. Until
now the idea of a Synthetic
capable of formulating its
own thoughts was inconceiv¬
able. But it has happened and
there can no longer be any
doubt that the po^ver of this
enigma called “love” must be
formidable indeed.
All of our advanced instru¬
ments have failed. Our re¬
search analysts have labored
tirelessly over hundreds of
volumes to at least find a defi¬
nition. Their findings to date
98
FANTASTIC
are utterly illogical. “Love”
is all-meaning, but indefin¬
able! We know that logically
this is impossible!
But in lieu of the immense
difficulty we have encounter¬
ed we feel there is but one
avenue of approach left open
to us. We request that Execu¬
tive Council rescind Section
Fourteen of the Orders of
Analysis-Base Triangle. True,
this is a last resort measure,
but what other choice do we
have? Neither this mission,
nor any plan for colonization,
can be successful if this
planet is able to hold the bal¬
ance of power with a weapon
of which we have no knowl¬
edge and therefore no way of
combatting.
Time is of the essence.
Await your reply.
End of Eighth Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Saturday, October
5 :— ( Continued ) —
I prayed . . . and I asked
God to hold back the dawn
until my love was beside me
again. The sun bursts through
my window now_and Rayn
sleeps.
But I am still apprehensive.
She was tired when she came
to me . . . and afraid. I want¬
ed to know about her family
... and if they had caused her
delay . . . but she would talk
only of being deeply in love
and of wanting to race away
with me to another world. I
wanted desperately to ask
more questions, to find out
what she was so frightened of
. . . but she kissed me and I
was helpless.
Her kiss lingered . . . until
we found ourselves next to
the earth in the open field...
in that other world that was
ours . . . clearer and more
beautiful than it was before
. . . and as love swept through
us it became a reality ... to
touch ... to smell ... to hold
precious and close ... to
never take leave of . . . years
passed—decades . . . and we
were always young . . . Octo¬
ber was always with us . . .
the flowers never faded . . .
the trees did not shed their
summer leaves . . . for winter
never came to us . . . and
the face of heaven never
wept. . . .
Now she sleeps.
I am thankful to God for
returning her to me. There
are no obstacles ahead of us
now. There is no power on
earth that can keep us
apart.
Tomorrow I will talk to her
and she will feel more like
making plans.
EARTH SPECIMEN
99
here at ten o’clock last night.
It is now three in the morn¬
ing and no word from her.
I have a dull ache in the pit
of my stomach. We have been
found out, I’m sure of it!
Somehow her parents have
learned. . . .
I mustn’t think this way!
What if they do know? We’ve
done nothing to be ashamed
of! I’ll tell them that ... of
course! The only right thing
to do is to see her parents and
explain to them how I feel...
tell them my intentions are
highly honorable and then
prove it by asking her to
marry me. . . .
I wish she would call first
... it would help to know ex¬
actly what frame of mind her
family is in . . . that ache in
my stomach refuses to go ...
Maybe she’ll show up after
all ... I don’t know ... I
don’t know ... I pray. . . .
R.B.
Eighth Report: October 5:
To: Intelligence Commandant,
Point of Origin, #99odo89:
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
For Executive Council —
Urgent!
At approximately ten
o’clock (2:70 Arcturus Time)
last night, after cooperating
with interrogation for twelve
hours, Psychopenetrator Rayn
began to cause trouble. She
arbitrarily insisted that the
interrogation was over and
that she be allowed to leave.
When permission was re¬
fused she became violent.
Three other Synthetics were'
summoned to physically sub¬
due her. She was then placed
under close guard.
At approximately four
o’clock (1:20 A.T.) Psycho¬
penetrator Rayn escaped!
The door to her cell had been
demolished. The three • Syn¬
thetics that had stood guard
were in prone positions on the
floor. Each had somehow been
demagnetized and thus ren¬
dered totally helpless.
Shortly after the escape it
was learned that a Decepto-
Ray Unit was missing !
These actions are, of
course, unprecedented. Until
now the idea of a Synthetic
capable of formulating its
own thoughts was inconceiv¬
able. But it has happened and
there can no longer be any
doubt that the po^ver of this
enigma called “love” must be
formidable indeed.
All of our advanced instru¬
ments have failed. Our re¬
search analysts have labored
tirelessly over hundreds of
volumes to at least find a defi¬
nition. Their findings to date
98
FANTASTIC
are utterly illogical. “Love”
is all-meaning, but indefin¬
able! We know that logically
this is impossible!
But in lieu of the immense
difficulty we have encounter¬
ed we feel there is but one
avenue of approach left open
to us. We request that Execu¬
tive Council rescind Section
Fourteen of the Orders of
Analysis-Base Triangle. True,
this is a last resort measure,
but what other choice do we
have? Neither this mission,
nor any plan for colonization,
can be successful if this
planet is able to hold the bal¬
ance of power with a weapon
of which we have no knowl¬
edge and therefore no way of
combatting.
Time is of the essence.
Await your reply.
End of Eighth Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
Entry — Saturday, October
5 :— ( Continued) —
I prayed . . . and I asked
God to hold back the dawn
until my love was beside me
again. The sun bursts through
my window now ... and Rayn
sleeps.
But I am still apprehensive.
She was tired when she came
to me . . . and afraid. I want¬
ed to know about her family
... and if they had caused her
delay . . . but she would talk
only of being deeply in love
and of wanting to race away
with me to another world. I
wanted desperately to ask
more questions, to find out
what she was so frightened of
. . . but she kissed me and I
was helpless.
Her kiss lingered . . . until
we found ourselves next to
the earth in the open field ...
in that other world that was
ours . . . clearer and more
beautiful than it was before
. . . and as love swept through
us it became a reality ... to
touch ... to smell ... to hold
precious and close ... to
never take leave of . . . years
passed—decades . . . and we
were always young . . . Octo¬
ber was always with us . . .
the flowers never faded . . .
the trees did not shed their
summer leaves . . . for winter
never came to us . . . and
the face of heaven never
wept. . . .
Now she sleeps.
I am thankful to God for
returning her to me. There
are no obstacles ahead of us
now. There is no power on
earth that can keep us
apart.
Tomorrow I will talk to her
and she will feel more like
making plans.
EARTH SPECIMEN
99
Ninth Report: October 5:
To: Intelligence Commandant,
Point of Origin: #99odo89 —
Arcturus.
Subject: Earth Specimen:
We acknowledge and are
grateful for the retraction of
Section Fourteen of our or¬
ders.
Four Shock-Robots were
dispatched to the Subject’s
quarters. At eight o’clock
(2:40 A.T.) this morning
Rayn and the Subject became
our prisoners. As we suspect¬
ed Rayn was found to be in
possession of the stolen De-
cepto-Ray Unit. This Unit
was inverted, this time to
such a degree that it is be¬
yond repair.
Psychopenetrator Rayn was
disassembled again and every
component part was reana¬
lyzed. Once again results
were negative. She has not
and will not, for security
reasons, be reassembled.
We then turned to our last
resort. In accordance with
Executive Council’s retrac¬
tion of Section Fourteen of
our orders, we cancelled the
Subject. After cancellation he
was placed in Anatomiza¬
tion Chamber. Dismembering
process was completed and
our full staff began to work.
It is now six o’clock (1:80
A.T.) in the evening. We
100
have been at work on the
Subject’s body parts for nine
hours. There is no trace of
“love.”
All of our earlier findings
have been reconfirmed ... we
were able to locate the source
of fear, intellect, sexual im¬
pulse, etc. Not one part of the
body disclosed the source or
the cause of “love.” In the
light of this depressing
knowledge it is regrettable
that cancellation of the Sub¬
ject was found necessary.
Until we return to point of
origin with a full report,
herewith a final summary of
our findings (with pertinent
recommendations from this
Commandant).
The planet offers ideal con¬
ditions for colonization.
The Species is, in almost
every way, backward, partic¬
ularly as to mental capacity.
Scientifically there would
be no resistance worth our
concern.
The Species has sufficient
physical strength to accom¬
plish our aims and to make
colonization pleasant.
However, there remains the
single deterrent, “love.” With
it the Subject was able to
work miracles of a type cap¬
able of resistance to every in¬
strument, scientific and men¬
tal, that we possess.
Therefore it is the recom-
FANTASTIC
mendation of this Comman¬
dant that further plans for
colonization be immediately-
halted.
We will transport the dis¬
assembled Rayn and the body
parts of the Subject back with
us to the point of origin.
We are masters of the prin¬
ciple of cause and effect. If
there is a cause for “love”—
and we know there must be
—our race will find it soon!
Then and only then will
the last obstacle to success¬
ful colonization be removed.
When we have mastered
“love” we will return to the
Earth and this Species will be
our slaves.
End of Ninth Report
From:
Rodor, Commandant,
Analysis-Base Triangle
tt/a&uu/uuo
“Better cut Murray off."
101
DANGER, RED!
By 0. H. LESLIE
This little dictator was going to ram regimen¬
tation down the throats of the 'people even if
they had to kill HIM to do it.
T HE GHOST writer was a
young man with gray hair
along both temples. This
distinctive feature was the
only pride he took in his ap¬
pearance, for the rest of his
face was too bony, the mouth
too wide, the eyes too hound-
dog sad. His name was Gar
Mitchell.
Dr. Solomon Withers, Di¬
rector of the Emotional Index,
interviewed him in the doc¬
tor’s own library, a sprawling,
book-crammed room that
smelled of tobacco and leather
and burnt charcoal. He was
flattered at the idea which
Gar Mitchell presented to him.
Yes, an autobiography would
be a contribution to scientific
understanding. And there was
no reason to be shamefaced
about employing a profes¬
sional writer to do the job.
After all, his forte was sci¬
ence.
“I’m no Hemingway," he
told Gar jovially, twirling a
cigar between his fingers. It
was a slim cigar, its shape
carefully chosen so as not to
look unctious when stuck in
the doctor’s small-boned, boy¬
ish face. Dr. Withers was a
handsome man in his early
sixties, and he took pride in
his appearance.
“Neither am I," Gar said.
“A Hemingway, I mean.”
102
The doctor laughed. It was
a good answer, and Gar knew
it. He had felt from the start
that the interview was a
stagey affair. They were both
playing roles, and he had to
remember his lines.
“Nevertheless,” Dr. With¬
ers said, “your previous ef¬
forts proved your ability. But
don’t misunderstand me, Mr.
Mitchell — or may I call you
Gar?”
No, Gar thought dryly. Call
me Mr. Mitchell. “Of course,”
he said aloud.
“Well, Gar, this is the point.
I’m not interested in glamoriz¬
ing my rather dull life. But
what I want to leave posterity
is the factual account of my
life’s work. I want to leave
history the truth about the
Emotionex.”
Gar puzzled over this cue.
Then he knew what he was
supposed to say.
“I don’t know, Dr. Withers.
I won’t be much good at ex¬
plaining the Index. Plenty of
good factual works already.
I sort of lean towards human¬
izing a biography.”
“And why not?” the doctor
beamed. “Why not indeed?”
He was so pleased by this re¬
sponse that he actually lit the
cigar. “Nothing duller than a
textbook, Mr. Mitchell—Gar.
I want to tell the human side
of the story. How I developed
the Emotionex, the problems
I had convincing Washington
that the idea was sound, the
opposition I faced—”
“That’s more what I had in
mind, Doctor.”
“Yes. Yes,” Dr. Withers
said, drumming idly on the
desk, a blue cloud already
over his head. He had the dis¬
tant look Gar recognized in
many of his clients, the in¬
ward view of the day their
autobiographies would be in
book form, lauded by the New
York Times "... a valuable
contribution to a vital sub¬
ject” featured in Brentano’s
window “It’s here! The book
all America is reading!” and
signed by the modest author
for relatives and friends “. . .
to Maybelle, my inspiration.”
Gar coughed politely, and
the doctor’s reverie ended
abruptly.
“Of course,” he said briskly,
“I want to give you a solid
background of the Emotionex.
I want you to know as much
as I—barring technical mat¬
ters, perhaps—about its work¬
ings. I’ll arrange special per¬
mission for you to visit the
Central Control building. I’m
sure you’ll find it very inter¬
esting.”
“I’m sure I will,” Gar said.
The doctor stood up, and the
play was obviously over. But
104
FANTASTIC
Gar couldn’t resist one unre¬
hearsed line.
“Dr. Withers, I wonder if
I can ask you—’’
For a moment, the doctor
looked annoyed. Then the
mood passed, and he was
chuckling.
“I know. Most people are
curious about it. You want to
know if I, myself, am In¬
dexed.”
Gar reddened. “I’m afraid
you’ve guessed it.”
“Then look for yourself.”
The doctor rolled back the
sleeve of his brocaded smok¬
ing jacket. The faint blue let¬
ters on the underside of his
forearm consisted of only
three figures: SW-1.
“Low number,” Gar mur¬
mured. “Mine’s M79807J.”
Dr. Withers snapped the
sleeve back into place.
“A car will call for you at
nine tomorrow. You’ll be
taken -directly to the Central
Control building. See you
there.”
“Yes, sir,” the ghost an¬
swered, and passed silently,
as ghosts should, out of- the
doctor’s house.
Being a young man, Gar
Mitchell was delighted with
his first view of the Emo¬
tional Ifidex’s Central Control
building. It was an airy, glass-
enclosed, round-doomed struc¬
ture just twenty miles north
of Kansas City, Kansas. But
it wasn’t the architecture of
the building which delighted
him—it was the occupants.
Seventy percent of the Emo-
tionex staff was female, and
they seemed to have been
chosen with attractiveness as
a prime hiring consideration.
He was sorry now that he
had worn his gray sack suit,
and that his morning shave
had been cursory. But the
lovely sloe-eyed technician
who took him in charge didn’t
seem to mind. Her name was
Drusilla Free. She made a
sexy joke about her last name,
and Gar blushed.
“Dr. Withers told me you’re
a writer,” she said, leading
him into a chrome - steeped,
red plush waiting room.
That’s something new. Usual¬
ly I give the inspection tour
to Congressmen and such. Go¬
ing to do a book?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, the doctor’s given
you carte blanche. That’s pret¬
ty unusual. Even Time-Life
got only limited inspection
privileges.” She was studying
his face, trying to determine
his status. Drusilla Free had
long blonde hair which she
wore Godiva-style, tied in a
pretty bowknot at the small
of her back. Her powder-blue
technician’s uniform was cut
DANGER. RED!
105
with the closeness of a bath¬
ing suit. The effect was unpro¬
fessional, but Gar wasn’t com¬
plaining.
“Just what do you do here,
Miss Free?”
“Statistician. My business
is figures.”
Gar thought of a stale joke
and abandoned it. “Quite a
place. Afraid you’ll find me
rather dense, though. Never
did understand this electronic
stuff.”
“I’m used to dealing with
laymen,” she said cooly, and
Gar blushed again.
He followed the girl through
a maze of offices, hard-put to
keep pace with her fast-step¬
ping high heels. Her long
blonde hair streamed out be¬
hind her like a golden flag,
and her commentary concern¬
ing the various departments
of the Emotionex Center was
clipped and mechanical. The
bulk of the activity in the low¬
er part of the building seemed
to concern statistical duties,
and the whirring, clacking,
and humming of computers
pervaded the atmosphere. Gar
had absorbed very little by the
time the first-floor tour had
ended, except possibly an ap¬
preciation for the manner in
which Miss Free walked.
His interest increased on
the second floor, however,
where the laboratories were
located. In a long antiseptic
room, filled with sunlight and
pretty laboratory workers, the
tiny Emotionex cathode tubes,
bright blue and thin as match-
sticks, were being produced
by the thousands, ready for
insertion in the forearms of
all U. S. citizens over the age
of fourteen. Gar witnessed an
actual operation in a labora¬
tory section devoted to such
experimentation. He watched
the white-coated lady interne
make a neat incision in the
arm of a young girl, causing
only slight bleeding, and
quickly insert the little blue
tube. Her deft fingers stitched
the wound with the finesse of
an experienced seamstress.
When she was finished, only
the pale serial number of the
Emotionex instrument showed
through the outer skin.
“Swift and painless,” Dru-
silla Free said gayly.
“Yes,” Gar answered, his
own forearm pulsating pain¬
fully in empathy. He watched
the young girl staring at her
arm, the tears standing in her
eyes. The Emotionex tube
would be there for good; it
was a Federal offense to cause
its removal.
“Now let’s get to the heart
of the Center,” his guide of¬
fered. “The Control Board.”
They entered through a
106
FANTASTIC
sequence of electric-eyed door¬
ways, halted each time by a
grim - faced male security
guard who asked biting ques¬
tions about the purpose of
their visit.
Then they came to the great
domed' room which housed the
central unit of the Emotional
Index—the massive master
control board which indexed
the emotional temperature of
the fifty-one United States.
Gar was really impressed
this time, and a look of al¬
most childish wonderment
and awe crossed his pale, bony
face and caused Drusilla Free
to chuckle with amusement.
“Really something, isn’t
it?” She smiled and squeezed
his elbow. “I get little chills
every time I come here. It’s
like a million Christmases,
like fireworks, like—” She
ran out of metaphors, and
leaned against him like a
lover hushed beneath the
mystery of the stars.
The Master Control Board
of the U. S. Emotional Index
swept a hundred and fifty feet
in a great arc around the
room. Its base color was jet
black, and the map which de¬
picted the United States and
territories was outlined bril¬
liantly in white. But it wasn’t
the enormity of the map
which caught your breath. It
was the glittering, dancing,
corruscating, sparkling dis¬
play of half a million tiny col¬
ored lights across its face.
Blue winks and red blinks,
white flashes and yellow
flickers, green and brown
and orange and purple and a
hundred other hues rippled
ceaselessly over the giant
board.
For the first time, Gar no¬
ticed the bank of high-set
swiveling leather chairs at the
base of the board. In the cen¬
ter chair, a familiar little fig¬
ure in a burly tweed suit spun
around and smiled towards
them.
“Gar, my boy!”
The doctor hopped off his
perch and skipped towards the
Ghost like a high-spirited
schoolboy. He patted Miss
Free’s waist paternally, but
kept his small hand there
while he spoke to Gar.
“Impressed?” he grinned.
“Very. I had no idea—”
“And this is only the Mas¬
ter. There are many more In¬
dex boards in the other sec¬
tions, each one pinpointing
smaller areas across the coun¬
try. The varigated colors, as
I’m sure you know, represent
various wavelengths of emo¬
tion throughout the nation at
this very minute—all the way
from mild displeasure to wild
joy and murderous anger.” He
frowned suddenly, and looked
DANGER. RED!
107
over his shoulder at the board.
“Anger . .he said musingly.
“What is it?” Drusilla
asked.
“Eh? Nothing, nothing.
Well, how are you treating
our friend, Drusilla?”
“She’s doing fine,” Gar said
loyally.
“That’s good. But I think
I’ll take over from here, Dru¬
silla dear. You can run along.
Drusilla did, and the doctor
watched her retreat with
thoughtful interest. Then he
snapped out of the mood and
rubbed his hands electrically.
“Well! Now let’s you and I
talk a bit.”
They paced up and down the
length of the winking board,
the doctor strutting with his
hands behind his back, Gar
ambling along after him, try¬
ing to catch his words.
“Crisis,” the doctor was
saying. “Crisis. That’s what
finally sold the idea, Gar. For
two years after the War, I and
my associates pleaded with
the government to establish
an emotional indexing system,
but they refused to accept the
idea. Not even the Cleveland
riots, or that bloody revolt in
California, made them see the
urgent necessity. But sooner
or later, they had to face it.
We’re living in explosive
times, Gar. More dangerous
108
than the world has ever
known. The war was one
thing; terrible enough, but at
least it gave us good clean
channeling of the emotions.
Fight, kill, avenge—good clear
emotional direction. But after¬
wards— chaos. Ever-increas¬
ing disorder and anarchy and
emotional peaks and valleys.
Crisis, and the Index became
a must. A must!”
He paused, and dropped
his voice conversationally.
“You’re tapping all this, of
course?”
“What?” Gar grinned lame¬
ly. “Sorry—I forgot.” He
reached in to touch the ma¬
chine in his pocket. “All set
now.”
“Yes,” Dr. Withers repeat¬
ed. “Crisis. The Index was
mandatory—a clear necessity.
A method to keep track of all
emotions as they swept
through the human organ¬
isms, a means of detecting
group hatred and violence be¬
fore it reached the danger
point. A precursor of crime, a
warning of imminent revolt
—the Index has provided us
with the first effective means
of taming the wildest beast of
all—the emotion of man.”
He looked very pleased
with this speech, and ended
it by jamming a cigar be¬
tween his teeth.
One of the Board workers,
FANTASTIC
a brunette with horn-rimmed
glasses, came up quietly be¬
hind them, and finally touched
the doctor’s shoulder.
“Eh? What is it?”
“Pardon me, Dr. Withers.
You wanted to be informed
about the Red condition. It’s
extended beyond Sector 40.”
“What’s that?” the doctor
looked bewildered.
“You wanted to be in¬
formed, sir. The pattern is dis¬
tinctly unusual—”
“Don’t tell me what’s un¬
usual!” The cigar jumped.
“I’ll decide that for myself.”
Gar cleared his throat.
“Anything wrong?”
“Nothing we can’t handle.”
The doctor walked towards
the center of the control
board, squaring his narrow
shoulders. Gar followed close¬
ly.
“The paths of human emo¬
tion are strange. Sometimes
there are — discrepancies.
Unusual formations. Coinci¬
dences ?”
“What kind of coinci¬
dences ?”
The doctor took the cigar
from his mouth and waved it
towards the California coast
line.
“See that Red pattern ex¬
tending from Oakland to
Death Valley? A direct mass
movement of the red lights
between the two points. We
noticed it early last week.”
“What does it mean?”
“Can’t tell exactly. There’s
anger, that’s for certain. Red
is the color of the Anger
wavelength. But it’s so oddly
concentrated—^”
“There are other red lights
on the board.”
“Thousand of them!” Dr.
Withers snapped. “People get
angry all the time. But the
pattern is too steady, too con¬
sistent. It’s a freak, of course.
A crazy coincidence—”
“I see,” Gar said.
“We’re running a local
check of the area. We’ll pin
down this anger. The Cali¬
fornia Index board has been
working all morning. We’ll get
the answer.”
He seemed to be calmed by
his own explanation. He
guided Gar into an adjoining
room, where smaller versions
of the Emotionex Board were
flashing their own colorful
varieties of light patterns.
The operator of the Cali¬
fornia Index was a chubby
young man, given to easy
perspiration. The dew had set¬
tled heavily on his round face
as he made notations on the
pad in front of him.
“Well, Conners?” Dr. With¬
ers said. “Pinned down this
little situation of ours?”
“Yes, sir. The Anger pat-
109
DANGER. RED!
tern seems to be heavily con¬
centrated in the city districts
of Oakland, San Francisco,
Los Angeles, and other large
population centers. However,
there seems to be some over¬
flow into the smaller coun¬
ties—”
“You’re being vague, Con¬
ners. I could tell that much
from the big board. You keep
working on it. If the pattern
continues until tomorrow, con¬
tact the Service and get them
to investigate. Might be a riot
brewing, or maybe that Na¬
tional People’s movement
again—”
As they walked off. Gar
said: “The Service?”
“Secret Service,” Dr. With¬
ers frowned. “They come into
the picture when a dangerous
emotional pattern is reported
by the Index. Not that I think
anything’s wrong.”
“Of course.”
“But you can’t be too care¬
ful. The nation is full of un¬
rest. I remember what I told
Congress six years ago, when I
testified before that commit¬
tee. I told them—you taking
this down?”
“Yes, sir. Recording ma¬
chine’s on, Doctor.”
“Good, good. ‘Gentlemen,’ I
told them...”
Gar’s first week was confus¬
ing. It was a bad time to learn
no
the operational procedure of
the Emotional Index, for the
staff of Emotionex were some¬
what confused themselves.
On Monday of the second
week, Drusilla Free said:
“Red pattern’s spread north¬
east as far as Salt Lake. And
there seems to be a similar
pattern coming from as far
north as Seattle. Dr. Withers
doesn’t seem too worried
about it, but other people are
concerned . . .”
“What about the Secret
Service ?” Gar asked. “Haven’t
they uncovered anything?”
“No. Nothing very much.
They’ve been questioning peo¬
ple all week, people whose in¬
dividual Index shows a con¬
stant Anger emotion. But they
haven’t discovered anything
worthwhile.”
“Sounds like something
brewing,” Gar said casually.
“Or maybe the doctor’s right.
Maybe it’s just a matter of
coincidence . . .”
“Coincidence!” Dr. Withers
said that same afternoon.
They were working in the
doctor’s book-lined study, and
the little man’s demeanor had
lost the relaxed air he had
worn only a week before.
“Anybody can get angry, Gar.
For a thousand reasons.
Look!”
He rolled up the sleeve of his
FANTASTIC
smoking jacket, and shoved
his arm beneath Gar’s eyes.
Under the pale blue number,
SW-1, the Index tube was
glowing a faint red.
“See?” he said. “I’m angry
now!”
Then the doctor laughed
abruptly, rolled down the
sleeve and tipped back in the
swivel chair. Gar looked ab¬
sently out of the study win¬
dow at the dappled pattern of
light and shade on the lawn.
“Well, let’s get going.
Where was I, Gar?”
“You were discussing your
speech before the committee.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I told them
the plain facts, the unvar¬
nished truth. The world had
learned little or nothing from
the war. All the hydro¬
gen bombs in the universe
couldn’t change the one fac¬
tor that kept man chained to
violence and chaos. Emotion.
Raw emotion! Unless intellect
found a means for keeping
track of the wild paths of hu¬
man feelings, the country
was doomed to a succession of
riots, self-inaugurated politi¬
cal factions, private armies
and parochial wars, looting,
bloodshed, turmoil, total dis¬
unity. Emotion had to be
checked, tabulated, just as
surely as if it were a chronic
disease whose only hope was
constant vigilance and sur¬
veillance. You sure that ma¬
chine is on ?”
“Yes, sir,” Gar said, tap¬
ping the gadget in his pocket.
“Good. Well, I finally made
them listen to reason. Within
a year, the Emotional Index
Act was the law of the land.
Within six months after the
enactment, insertion of the
Index tubes was 90% com¬
plete. And the Index began
showing results already. You
remember, of course. That
business in Ohio ...”
“Oh, yes. The Ohio Mas-
acre.”
“Please!” Dr. Withers look¬
ed pained. “Don’t refer to it
by that vulgar name. The
Ohio Insurrection is the ac¬
cepted phrase. Without the
Index to detect the surge of
violent emotion in that area,
there would have been a far
more dreadful result. As it is,
the information the Index pro¬
vided the Government helped
them quell a treasonable re¬
volt which could have caused
the lives of many thousands.”
“Seems to me there were
thousands killed, Dr. With¬
ers.”
“Hundreds! Only hundreds!
The facts are grossly mis¬
quoted. The Government
troops killed only a few hun¬
dred of the rebels. And it was
a necessity. Nobody denies
that.”
DANGER. RED!
11
“Of course,” Gar said.
The telephone rang, and Dr.
Withers snatched the receiver
from its cradle, and barked
“Well?” He listened in silence
for a moment, and then
slammed it down again.
“Anything wrong?”
“The anger pattern,” the
doctor said. “I just don’t un¬
derstand it! The pattern has
blanketed Idaho and Montana
and is coming southward rap¬
idly. Yet the Service can’t
seem to detect any open hos¬
tility anywhere we send
them.”
“That’s seven states in less
than two weeks,” Gar said
mildly. “California, Nevada,
** Arizona, Oregon—”
“I know, I know! You don’t
have to list them.” He scratch¬
ed his head vigorously. “I sup¬
pose I should get over to the
Control Board—”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let’s finish this chap¬
ter first. Then we’ll see.”
The red lights winked
across the master control
board of the Emotional Index,
a bloody swath across the
western coast of the United
States. Gar stared at the flood-
tide of angry red lights, until
he felt the breath of Drusilla
Free at the back of his neck.
“Look,” she was saying.
“What is it?”
“In the East. Massachusetts
and New Hampshire—”
“I don’t see what you
mean.”
“We’re getting an Anger
proportion that’s almost thir¬
ty percent above normal for
those states. And that’s only
since Monday. If it keeps up,
we may have both coasts cov¬
ered by the end of this week.”
“Can’t they do something?”
Gar said.
Drusilla shrugged. “Noth¬
ing to do. No harm is being
done. There’s no violence any¬
where, no arming, no rioting.
People are just—angry.”
“How’s the doctor taking
it? Haven’t seen him since
the beginning of the week.”
“He’s upset, of course. The
Government can’t find^ any¬
thing wrong, so they’re ques¬
tioning whether the Index
might be faulty. That’s got
him on edge.”
“What do you think about
it?”
“I don’t think,” the girl
said, rubbing against his arm.
It was twilight outside the
doctor’s study, three weeks
from the inception of the
Withers autobiography. The
doctor paced the carpet in the
fast-darkening room, until
Gar reached over and snapped
on the desk lamp.
“Eh?” Dr. Withers said,
startled.
112 .
FANTASTIC
“Just turning on the lights,”
Gar said.
“Oh. Where was I?”
“ ‘A new interpretation of
freedom.’ ”
“Did I say that? Not bad.
Might make a chapter heading
out of that, Gar.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A new interpretation of
freedom,” the doctor repeat¬
ed. A new kind of security for
the nation, a protection
against the untethered and
dangerous emotions. It’s ridic¬
ulous to say that the People
were against the Index. The
only real objectors were the
radicals, the professional do-
gooders, bleeding hearts, the
hypocrites cackling about the
rights of man. But they were
the T vocal ones, Gar, that was
the trouble. They were vocal,
and the great masses who sup¬
ported the Index in humble si¬
lence—they were never heard
from. So you might get the
erroneous impression that
America didn’t want the little
blue tube in their arm.
Wrong! Dead wrong! Amer¬
ica wanted the Index. America
needed the Index. That’s a
fact which history will sup¬
port. That’s my theme, Gar.
Work on it. See if you can
develop a title. Something
like, History is on My Side.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s the matter with
you, Gar?” The doctor peered
at him. “You look sleepy. Sure
you’re listening?”
“Oh, yes, sir. And if I did
miss anything—well, there’s
my little machine.”
“Hmm. I guess you’re wor¬
ried about the Anger pattern.
Well, forget it. I made a care¬
ful check on the Index this
very afternoon. Working
smooth as ever. Not a thing
wrong with the mechanism.”
“But the pattern. That
hasn’t stopped, sir?”
“Stopped? On the contrary,
It’s spread. East Coast has it
down to Georgia and part of
Florida. And it shows signs
of heading west to Alabama
and Mississippi.”
“Any idea what it all
means ?”
“How should I know?” The
doctor’s voice rose indignant¬
ly. “That’s the Government’s
job. I supply the emotional
facts. They’ve got to do the
policing!”
“Yes, sir,” Gar said, yawn¬
ing.
It was the end of the third
week.
In the Emotional Index’s
great domed room, Gar Mit¬
chell watched the half-million
tiny lights on the giant master
control board dance and wink,
and the prevalent motif was
red.
DANGER. RED!
113
Great splashes of red
washed up and down the east
and west coast of the United
States. Red swirled around
the southwestern and south¬
eastern areas of the nation.
Red was creeping slowly
along the northern section and
down the Great Lakes area,
over the Dakotas and Wiscon¬
sin and Illinois . . .
“It’s crazy,” Dr. Withers
murmured, his eyes on the
spreading crimson lights. “It
doesn’t make any sense.
There’s no sense to it!”
Drusilla Free touched him
gently. “Would you like some
coffee?”
“No, no!”
“I’ll have some,” Gar told
her. “Looks like we’re in for
a long seige. Dr. Withers
won’t leave until the next re¬
port from the Service.”
The doctor whirled to him.
“Take this down. Gar. Let’s
not waste time. On that chap¬
ter concerning the Ohio Massa
—the Ohio Insurrection. I
have some thoughts on the
opening. I want you to dig up
the articles that appeared—”
A technician interrupted.
“Sorry, Doctor. Telephone for
you from Washington.”
“Washington?” The doc¬
tor’s face paled. “Maybe
they’ve learned something—”
He scrutinized the board once
more, and grimaced at the
ever-increasing redness of its
winking lights. Then he mut¬
tered something and followed
the technician into another
area of the floor.
He returned some five min¬
utes later, and his round boy¬
ish face was exuberant.
“Now we’re getting some¬
where!” He rubbed his hands
until the skin made dry,
crackling noises. “Now we’ll
get to the bottom of this!”
“What’s happened?” Gar
said.
“The Service finally tracked
down some of the instigators
of the Anger. Agents provoca¬
teurs, spreading their poison
across the country, silently,
stealthily;—a national move¬
ment against the govern¬
ment—”
“Who are they?” Drusilla
said. “What do they want?”
“Who knows? A thousand
and one senseless causes sweep
this mad population of ours.
The whole world is psychotic!
But now we’re tracking them
down. The Index hasn’t failed
us!”
“But the Anger spread so
fast—”
“Of course! The tempo of
madness. The heedless speed
of neurotic imbalance! From
one to another, these rebels
have been passing their anger,
until it’s spread like a plague
114
FANTASTIC
across the country. But now
we’ll stop. Now we’ll fix
them—”
“Speaking of trouble,” Gar
said softly, “look.”
Their eyes returned to the
great board. Despite Dr.
Withers’ joyful announce¬
ment, the grim waves of red
light had now almost com¬
pletely inundated the white-
outlined map. The concentra¬
tion of red was so pronounced
that the one area still relative¬
ly unbloodied stood out from
the rest like a white ship in
a crimson ocean.
“Kansas,” Drusilla breath¬
ed. “They’re surrounding
Kansas,”
“Nonsense!” The doctor’s
own face was crimsoned by a
rush of blood. “It’s a coin¬
cidence—a trick. The people
want the Index. The people
need the Index.”
“Dr. Withers! The brunette
technician, her horn-rimmed
glasses in her hand, came to
their side. “Doctor, there are
crowds outside the building.”
“Crowds? What are you
talking about?”
“People. Lots of them. Just
watching the building. I don’t
like it, Doctor—”
“You must be mistaken.
What do they want? Ask them
what they want!”
“But there are thousands of
them! They’re like a mob—
DANGER. RED!
only they’re so very quiet—”
Now the red lights on the
giant board were flashing
violently, and slowly covering
the area of Kansas.
“Call Washington,” Dr.
Withers said evenly. “Call the
Secret Service. Tell them
what’s happening. Tell them
to send help at once. Call
somebody—”
“It’s no use,” Gar Mitchell
told him. “They’ve been wait¬
ing a long time, Doctor.
They’ve been moving quietly,
planning, doing nothing overt.
But the Anger has been build¬
ing in them, Doctor. Building
until the time came to make a
move ...”
“What are you saying?”
The little man stared at him,
his eyes wide and frightened.
“How do you know all this?
What’s your part in this busi¬
ness, Mitchell ?”
“A leading role,” Gar said.
He lifted the tape machine
from his pocket. But it wasn’t
a tape machine. When he
flicked the lever that began
the inexorable process of the
mechanism, Drusilla Free
moaned with fear, and Dr.
Withers screamed like a wom¬
an. When Gar hurled the ex¬
plosive device towards the
great Index board, they could
glimpse the glowing red tube
in his forearm.
THE END
115
The little old lady met Tet on a New York street
corner. Tet had thrilling plans for the future. So did
the little old lady. The question was, which had the —
Appointment With
Mr. Armstrong
By D. E. KAYE
I T WAS one of those long
traffic lights that never
want to change. The little old
lady shifted the heavy shop¬
ping bag from one hand to the
other, rubbing out the sore¬
ness against the smooth cloth
of her black silk coat. She
turned up her palm to inspect
the damage. A deep red line
almost obscured the network
of tiny wrinkles.
“Would you like me to carry
that for a little while? It looks
mighty heavy for a little girl
your size!” The voice was
soft, with a gentle humor to
it, but it took the old lady by
surprise. Her head turned
quickly.
“Oh, no, thank you!” she
answered with a kind of
breathless embarrassment. “I
don’t have too far to go after
this crossing.” Then, quickly,
“But thank you again. It’s
very sweet of you to ask.”
The slim young girl beside
her laughed easily, tossing a
fine head of close-cropped
blonde curls. “Now, now,” she
drawled, “that’s nothing. I al¬
ways carry Grandma’s pack¬
ages back home. Come on, let
me take that. I’m sure it must
be much too heavy for you.”
She reached down for the
handles. The old lady pulled
back a few inches, still tug¬
ging at the bag. “Well . . .”
she hesitated, “I don’t like to
bother . . . but are you sure
you won’t.. .”
“Of course, I won’t mind!
Come now, let me have that.
Why, I’ll bet that bag weighs
more than all of little you put
together! Why, nobody back
home would let Grandma
116
carry anything like that—not
only me!”
The old lady smiled, brush¬
ing away a whisp of fine gray
hair that had blown across her
rimless glasses. She let the
girl take the shopping bag,
which miraculously seemed to
shed half its weight in the
transfer.
“I must say, you’re a sweet
child,” she ventured still
somewhat cautiously. “You
don’t see many of your kind
around here anymore. That is,
here in New York. Everybody
hurrying about their own
business, not caring who they
bump into, never stopping to
say they’re sorry, and certain¬
ly never asking if* they might
help an old lady!” The last
came out with enough convic¬
tion to straighten her thin
bent shoulders. “My good¬
ness! Here I am jabbering
away and we missed that
light! And you carrying that
heavy bag for me. You know,
I don’t even know your name,
so that I can thank you prop¬
erly. Guess I’m getting just as
bad as the rest around here!”
She seemed almost gay with
excitement now. Freed of her
heavy burden, her small bony
hands fluttered about like tiny
wooden clappers.
The young girl chuckled.
“Well, now, isn’t that so?” A
fast wink punctuated the
question. “It’s Tet Lucas.
That’s Tet for Margaret.
Kinda lingered on from the
time I was too young to say
my own name properly. And
I’m here from Alabama, just
outside of Whistler—where
everyone sends their mail on
Mother’s Day so they can get
the postal mark on it! We’re
sorta famous for that—you
know, Whistler’s Mother?
Everybody knows that.”
The old lady nodded. “How
nice!”
“And Jimmy and me—we
are getting married next
month. That’s my beau, you
know, and Grandma thought
it would be real fine if I came
up to New York to kinda look
around at furniture on ac-
counta you really can’t buy
anything good like that in
Whistler.”
“Really?”
“Oh, not really smart
things. And Jimmy’s building
our home himself, and he de¬
serves the best, Grandma
says. He’s a builder, Jimmy is,
only I tease him and call him
an architect! Grandma thinks
that’s real fine too. She says
you have to make a man feel
important! Grandma raised
me, you see.” She slapped a
pretty, lightly manicured
hand to her full pink lips. “Oh,
but how could you see! We
APPOINTMENT WITH MR. ARMSTRONG
117
just met! And here I am talk¬
ing like a little magpie!”
A tiny frown found a place
for itself on her smooth shiny
forehead. The girl continued.
“I guess it’s just that it isn’t
easy to find anyone to talk to
up North here, and I reckon
maybe I’m just a wee bit lone¬
some for Grandma too!” She
turned large, eager eyes to¬
ward the old lady. “You know,
you do look a bit like Grand¬
ma, at that! Honestly! Maybe
that’s why I asked to carry
your shopping bag. Just think
of that, way up here in New
York! May I ask your name
too? Sure wasn’t very neigh¬
borly of me not to. I guess I
just got carried away.”
The old lady’s pale blue eyes
twinkled. “Well, Tet, it’s just
Barbara Terrance—Miss Bar¬
bara Terrance. I’m afraid I’m
what you’d call an old maid,
so I guess I can’t be too much
like your very nice Grandma.
At least I never had the good
fortune to have a lovely,
granddaughter like you to
raise! Oh, I had lots of little
children I used to like to imag¬
ine were mine when I still
taught school, but even that
was a long, long time ago!
But if you’re going to be in
New York for a spell, why
don’t you let me have a little
of Grandma’s fun and take
you to tea some afternoon? I’d
love that kind of pretending,
even at my age!”
“Why, Miss Terrance, that
would be lovely! I’ll be up here
all the rest of this week, and
I’m sure we can arrange some¬
thing. Let’s talk about it while
I help you home with this
bundle. I’m in no hurry.” Tet
reached over to take the old
lady’s arm. “Here now, let’s
make this light!”
It happened so fast that
neither Tet nor Miss Terrance
saw anything but a huge black
shadow plummeting over
them. A sickening screech of
wheels and it was all over.
Where the street corner
was almost deserted a moment
before, now it swarmed with
faces, hard in horror. Twenty-
odd feet away, a shopping bag
lay open and torn, its assorted
contents of potatoes, oranges,
and new spool thread rolling
aimlessly down the highway.
A truck driver sat limply on
his running board, his large
hands washing the skin off
each other, his beard-shadow¬
ed chin pressed hard to his
chest, from off in the dis¬
tance, the sound of a shrill
siren pierced the silent crowd.
“Mr. Armstrong! Mr. Arm¬
strong! Where are you?” Miss
Terrance called sharply, im¬
patiently, tightening a hat pin
into a fold of her rough black
118
FANTASTIC
straw sailor. "I’m waiting for
you!”
“Right over here, Miss Ter¬
rance. You mustn’t get nerv¬
ous, you know.” The voice had
the deep sustained quality of
an organ note.
With small, precise steps,
the old lady elbowed her way
through the solidly massed
crowd. She never touched one
of the persons standing there.
At the far outer edge stood
Mr. Armstrong, one long arm
resting easily at his side, the
other poised for a handshake.
The old lady bounced to a
stop in front of him. “So, you
are Mr. Armstrong! Well!”
she gasped, stretching her
small bony neck to look up
into his face, fully two feet
above her. “Now why in good¬
ness knows did they tell me to
ask for you?”
Since she was obviously go¬
ing to ignore the handshake
Mr. Armstrong dropped it to
his side. He continued, still
patient and gentle. “They all
have to ask for me, sooner or
later, Miss Terrance. You
knew that, didn’t you?”
“Knew what?”
“That you’ve just died. You
are to come with me now.
They all do.”
“Why, I declare!” It was
more of a series of gasps than
words. “Of all the nonsense!
You just can’t stand here and
tell me when I’m dead and
when I’m not. I’m just not
ready to die! If you’re waiting
around for someone to just up
and stop living, why not pick
on somebody else? This will
certainly upset my plans for
California this summer! Or
don’t you take such things
into consideration?” She
brushed beligerently at a dust
spot on her coat.
“I’m truly sorry about that,
Miss Terrance,” he continued
calmly, “but who would you
suggest I take in your place ? I
can’t go back alone, you know,
when I’m given two return
tickets. The rules, you under¬
stand . . .”
“Poppycot! What rules?”
She thought for a minute,
kneading her thin pale lips in
the effort. “That girl!” she
cried, suddenly. “Tet! We
both stepped off the curb to¬
gether. It was her fault as
much as mine, why isn’t she
here instead of me? I’m an old
lady, I should think I deserve
a little more courtesy when it
comes to ordering people
around!”
An almost imperceptible
smile sat lightly on Mr. Arm¬
strong’s face. “You really
want me to take Tet instead?
I’m not sure, but there still
may be a few minutes’ time
... if you’re sure?”
“Why .. . yes! I have other
119
APPOINTMENT WITH MR. ARMSTRONG
plans, I told you! Can’t you
understand, I’ve never been to
California and I don’t have
too many years left to do any
of those things I’ve always
wanted to, Mr. Armstrong.
You do understand, don’t
you? This is so upsetting!”
“And her plans, Miss Ter¬
rance? Tet’s plans? You were
going to hear all about them
at tea, weren’t you?”
She had forgotten about
that. “Goodness me!” Her tiny
hand slapped sharply at her
cheek. “What will she ever
think? I guess I’ll never make
that tea-date now. And such a
sweet child, too, stopping like
that to help an old lady with
her bundles! You know, Mr.
Armstrong, that child was
just dying to talk to someone
—and she wanted so much to
tell me about . . . about . . .”
The word sat motionless on
her lips....
. . . about Jimmy, that nice
boy who was a builder . . .
no, not a builder, an archi¬
tect ... yes, an architect...
about Grandma who’s wait¬
ing for her to come home
. . . with a new lavender
lace dress for the wedding
... a wedding she’s dream¬
ed for so long.
“She wanted to tell you
about . . . what, Miss Ter-
120
ranee?” Mr. Armstrong placed
his long arm on the old lady’s
shoulder.
“Mr. Armstrong!” she said,
tossing off his arm with small
bits of feminine impatience.
“You said you had two tickets.
Now for heaven’s sake don’t
keep me waiting any longer.”
Inside the ambulance one of
the doctors reached for his
cigarettes while the other
held the blanket firmly over
the girl’s foot.
“Whatd’ya make of it,
Mike?”
“Well, the girl’s got a real
good chance. I’m sure she’ll
come out with just this frac¬
ture. One of those bio’s stand¬
ing around said she was carry¬
ing a damn heavy shopping
bag, filled with potatoes and
stuff—and it looks to me like
when the jerk truck driver
hit, he hit the bag and that
sent her flyin’ off to the side.
“But that poor old lady,
she musta got it head on.” He
bit hard on his lower lip.
“You know something, Carl?
I coulda swore I heard a
heartbeat when we got there!
Seems impossible, but I’m
sure I did.”
The other doctor sighed,
“Hell, I hate these calls! You
got her purse? She sure looked
to me like someone’s Grand¬
ma. . .
THE END
FANTASTIC
BY S. E. COTTS
star GIRL. By Henry Winterfeld. 191 pp. Harcourt, Brace and Com¬
pany. $2.75.
Need a tonic? Long for a breath of clean, warm air? Then Star
Girl is the very book you need.
I am still not sure what fortunate wind blew this slim, charming
volume into my room. All I know is that when I reached out for the
next book, there it was, perched modestly on top of a volume fea¬
turing a huge, purple-eyed monster who was lifting a screaming,
shapely young lady into the air. I yelped, grabbed Star Girl, and
ran out of the room slamming the door behind me.
A group of children find a strange little girl named Mo in the
forest. She tells them that she is from another planet and that she
fell out of her father’s spaceship as it hovered over the Earth. They
believe her story unquestioningly. Their great mistake is in taking
her home for the day to help her pass the time until her father
comes to pick her up that evening. None of the grownups believe
Mo and they call in the policeman who is convinced that she has
simply run away from home and is inventing a wild tale to cover
that fact. Bewildered, Mo does run away and spends the day learn¬
ing the strange ways of Earth people.
To be honest with the readers, I will say I’m not sure whether
my enjoyment stemmed wholly from the book itself or just from
the change of pace from monsters, meteors, and Martian maraud¬
ers. Either way, this whimsical tale is a must both for young readers
and the cynical old generation of S-F addicts.
Solomon’s stone. By L. Sprague de Camp. 22k pp. Avalon Books.
$2.75.
Solomon’s Stone starts out to be a fairly entertaining book. Pros¬
per Nash, a staid CPA, was invited to his friend Monty Stark’s
121
house on All Saints’ Eve. Stark’s hobby was magic and he was go¬
ing to perform some sorcery for his friends. Imagine his surprise
when at the climax of his spell, Bechard, a real demon appears in¬
stead of the costumed friend Stark had arranged for. Bechard says
he is going to take over the body of one of those in the room. The
next thing Prosper Nash knows, he is on the astral plane in the
body of a dashing French cavalier, something he had always secret¬
ly imagined himself; and Bechard is on Earth in his body. The ma¬
jority of the book concerns Nash’s efforts to find the Shamir
—Solomon’s Stone—which would undo Bechard’s spell.
Here is a setup for a delightful spoof, and in the beginning de
Camp does all right by it. There are many lovely touches in the de¬
scriptions of the people who inhabit the astral plane—each one
someone’s idealization of himself. As is often the case, however, the
author doesn’t know when to call it quits; he piles zany detail on
top of zany detail until the whole thing is too heavy and drawn-out
for the slender plot that supports it. Then rather abruptly he puts
a stop to it with a milk-and-water ending as though even he, its
author, has tired of it.
earth is room enough. By Isaac Asimov. 192 pp. Doubleday & Com¬
pany, Inc. $2.95.
A talking insect that gets hypnotic control of a family; the enter¬
tainment world of the future where rival dreamie companies find
themselves with a new means of communication but an age-old
problem; a robot that helps straighten out a faltering marriage; the
frightening possibilities of an instrument which can view the past
•—these ^re but a few of the topics that Isaac Asimov chooses to
explore in his new anthology.
They are not all of the same high quality—a few depend too
much on a trick or gimmick; but even the less good ones compel
you to read. There is a wide range in length also. Some are merely
thumbnail sketches; one is practically a novelette. The one common
element in all the stories is their locale here on Earth. Though this
similarity might limit some writers, Mr. Asimov thrives on it and
so will the readers.
Also included are two poems which this reviewer will not com¬
ment on out of respect for Mr. Asimov.
122
FANTASTIC
I find that I must take exception to the solution to the piston
problem presented in your October issue by Mr. Sowle.
The first order of business is to define what stop means. It is my
belief that stop means to reduce velocity to zero. On the basis of this
.definition one can show mathematically that the piston must stop.
Such a proof is enclosed.
Question: Does the Piston, P,
stop if the flywheel, F, is rotat¬
ing with constant angular veloc¬
ity?
Nomenclature:
AB = Center line of Piston, P &
flywheel, F
P = Piston
C = Connecting rod
R = Radius of flywheel
F =. Flywheel
W = Angular velocity of flywheel
F (Rodians/unit time)
© = Instantaneous angle be¬
tween OD and center line
AB
D = Connection between flywheel
& connecting rod
M'N' = Projection of flywheel on
a line parallel to AB
123
D' = Projection of point D on
M'N'
MN = The projection M'N'
translated so that it passes
through O, the center of the
flywheel and remains paral¬
lel to M'N'
0=Center of flywheel
Since this is a theoretical
problem let us consider the point
D to be located at a distance R
from 0.
It follows that if the piston, P,
stops, that the vertical velocity
component of the point D is 0 at
the same instant. If P does not
stop, the vertical velocity compo¬
nent of D is never 0.
So let us examine the equa¬
tion of motion for the projection
D' of D on the line M'N'.
U y = Tangential velocity of
point D 11^.= WR.
But since velocity is a vector it
can be resolved into its X and Y
components.
The vector U^, is perpendicu¬
lar to the radius R.
U v = U-, sin 0 = WR sin ©
T = time
V y - WR sin WT
U y - 0 at WT = 0 & H
a = acceleration
dUY = WR cos WT = Ay
dt
dUy = O at WT = T1 & 3T1
dt
2
When the point D is at either
M or N its velocity is zero but it
is at max acceleration.
Henry H. George, Jr.
c/o Mrs. M. F. Clickner
Mountainview Ave.
Troy, New York
• We are "presenting Mr. George's solution to the piston problem
rather than that of Mr. Steven Steckler, as promised in last months
issue, because of space problems. Mr. Steckler’s was less condensed
but equally convincing.
Dear Editor:
On page 124, November issue, of your magazine, you have given
124 FANTASTIC
the answer to the Piston Problem in which you stated that the piston
did not stop at the end of each stroke. Maybe I misunderstood your
conception of the word stop. As I understand it, it means zero accel¬
eration and zero velocity. If you agree with me on this, then you
must agree that at the end of each stroke of the piston along the line
AB the piston comes to zero velocity and zero acceleration, which it
must in order for it to accelerate in the opposite direction along the
line AB. Therefore, at the end of the stroke, top or bottom of the
cylinder, the piston “stops” momentarily before accelerating in
the opposite direction.
Please give me your opinion on this.
Duane E. MacLeod, Jr.
1138 I St., Apt. 6
Anchorage, Alaska
• Henry H. George, Jr., agrees with you, Duane.
Dear Editor:
I just finished reading the November issue of Fantastic. “The
Wife Factory” by Clyde Mitchell was a very interesting story, al¬
most as good as “A Pattern for Monsters.” I also liked G. Vanden-
berg’s “Who Stole Carnegie Hall.” “The Cosmic Trap,” by Gerald
Vance was also an interesting story.
A while ago you said you can’t bat a thousand in every issue you
print, but you certainly score high for me.
Why do you have a section in History, “Boost Your I.Q.,” when
you can use that space for science fiction ? -
Stephen Rotman
70 Linwood St.
Malden, Mass.
• The majority of our readers agreed with you, sir. Therefore,
no more quiz features.
Dear Editor:
A few days ago I happened to purchase the November issue of
your magazine and have enjoyed reading the science fiction stories
therein. On page 124, however, was a bit of fiction which was not
clearly labeled as such.
I am referring to the “Answer to the Piston Problem.” I note in
reading this over that the motion of the piston depends on a connec¬
tion between said piston and the con-rod; this connection point (call
it Q) being on the line AB. However, if we consider any point on
line AB and inquire whether the point of connection, Q, is ever at
that point, your line of reasoning yields a definite “NO” answer.
ACCORDING TO YOU ... 125
This is obvious since the piston, along with point Q, is in constant
motion, and, thus, point Q will require zero time to pass any point
on the line AB; therefore, point Q is never at any point on line AB!
Thus, point Q must be somewhere else, and the connection becomes
impossible.
Perhaps it is useless for me to worry about this, however, for the
same reasoning proves that the piston itself is nowhere along AB. I
suspect, also, that the flywheel, F, will vanish under application of
this line of reasoning; and then, “of course,” the whole problem
ceases to exist, doesn’t it?
D. B. Robinson
3208 S. Barrington Ave.
Los Angeles 66, Calif.
• The Nays certainly seem to have it in relation to that derned
piston problem.
Dear Editor:
The November issue of Fantastic was fantastically better than
ever.
Each of the stories was cleverly written within the realm of fan¬
tastic situations. As I have stated many times, an escape from our
everyday humdrums or something.
W. C. Brandt
Apt. N
1725 Seminary Ave.
Oakland 21, Calif.
• Someday, we’re going to leave W. C. out. It will break our
hearts to do it, though.
Dear Editor:
Upon receiving the October issue of Fantastic I could only hold
it at a safe distance and smirk.
The Valigursky cover was rapidly destroyed upon sight. I thought
I was going to read a story on the Flash Gordon vs. Mongo line. I
was rather pleasantly surprised with the cover story, however. That
picture of the barbarian was purely sexy though.
I enjoy Harlan Ellison’s writing, but he got carried away in his
letter, I think. What he says in regard to G. Wells’ letter is nothing
but childish. I could say, too, when I saw an s-f mag: “Now here is
trash. It couldn’t possibly be. There are discrepancies in every story.
Why they publish it just to appease a few neurotics is beyond me.”
But I don’t. The same is true when I reply to the jokes and gripes
that I get from some of my s-f correspondents. For example: one
126
FANTASTIC
fan I heard from who had just moved, was jokingly cursing his new
home town for not carrying the top s-f magazines. I could have writ¬
ten back and said: "If you don’t like it, why’d you move there?” But
I’d have made an enemy out of him. Besides, I laughed, I say things
like that too. That’s what keeps fans together. What’s the use of a
letter column or fandom if we can’t have our private jokes, disputes
and fun ? I know there wouldn’t be any reason for a letter section if
everyone wrote only reviews of past issues, and subjects only of top
interest. That’s what fanzines are for, and they’re even more private
(I don’t mean that like it sounds) than letters in prozines. We’ve
got to think we can communicate with other fans in the column,
also the editor and the writers of the stories.
I’d like to ask the other fans for offers on trades for old copies of
Fantastic. This last issue is the only one I’ve seen on the stands in a
long long time. (This newsstand situation has to go.)
Vince Roach
3443 South Sadlier Road
Indianapolis 19, Ind.
• Why not shoot in a subscription, Vince. Four dollars and you’re
in for a year.
Dear Editor:
I have been a reader of your magazine for about a year. During
all that time I have enjoyed every issue. However, in the December,
’57, copy I saw something that made me pretty mad. In “A Choice
of Miracles,” the Lutheran Church is inferred to be a sect. I, as a
Lutheran, resent my church being called a sect.
The Lutheran Church is one of the fastest growing and best re¬
spected. I hope you will get this straightened out.
Charles J. Moscato
59 Varet St.
Brooklyn, N. Y.
• No disrespect whatsoever was intended by use of the word
“sect .” Funk & Wagnell’s Dictionary defines the word as “The ad¬
herents collectively of a particular creed or confession; a denomina¬
tion.” We are indeed sorry to have offended you, sir.
Dear Editor:
Although I am an avid s-f fan, I do not often take the time to
write letters of praise for the good stories which appear in your
monthlies. However, after reading Mr. Jarvis’ story in the December
issue, I couldn’t resist the temptation.
My compliments to him on his ability to take a single, small idea
ACCORDING TO YOU ... 127
and expand it into a delightful story. In all fairness, however, it
certainly seemed a long way to tip a rareie.
Raymond S. Ferell
Berea, Kentucky
• The story Mr. Ferell refers to was titled: “If This Be Utopia.”
Dear Editor:
Just bought a copy of your November issue of Fantastic. (Unlike
the States, the November issue gets here in November.) I have a
few comments to make: a note to W. C. Brandt. If you can’t see any
sex in the stories in Fantastic I would suggest that you see a doctor.
(No offense intended, of course.) It’s there just as big as life. Now,
I’m one of sex’s greatest advocates but even I must admit that Fan¬
tastic is science-fiction’s sexiest mag. As for a comparison of s-f
today with that in the “good old days” I would say that, in general
it’s just as good and in some few cases better today than it was
then. Fantastic is an example. I could hardly say that it has im¬
proved its standards or decreased them because the Fantastic of
today is printing stories of an entirely different type than those that
the mag. of yesteryear printed. Whether the change is good or bad I
would hardly feel able to say.
Now to a sore point that the November issue touched in me. That
was the “Boost Your I.Q.” quiz. Supposedly, this quiz was on archae¬
ology but actually it did not even begin to touch on the archaeology
that I was taught when I went to college. I think you and your
readers will find that there is a great deal of difference between Old
World or Classical Achaeology and New World (especially North
American) Archaeology. It is similar to the difference between barn
painting and fine art. In my opinion there is no comparison between a
true science such as southwestern or plains archaeology and the
glorified “pot-hunting” of the Old World. I would suggest that you
and your readers take a look at the report of the excavation of a
plains Indian village in order to see how a real archeaologist works.
Russel L. Brown
#29 Louise Apt.
Ketchikan, Alaska
Dear Editor:
I have been reading s-f mags, for about one year now and used to
like Amazing and Fantastic just as much as a lot of readers who
keep writing to you. No offense to the fans but the letter column has
been a little too optimistic lately. Probably more than half of these
optimistic fans have never seen a pulp-sized magazine, especially an
issue of Amazing or Fantastic.
128
FANTASTIC
You have had some pretty good stories lately, but so have many
other-magazines. Recently I read some of the stories you had writ¬
ten for the old issues such as “The Terrible Puppets,” “The Girl
Who Loved Death,” and “The Iron Men of Venus.” I thought they
were A-l. I have also noticed that you have written some of the lead
stories for recent issues and they were about half the size of the
aforementioned.
I realize that the digest size has become a trend (unfortunately)
but not because the fans prefer it. A very small minority prefer
digest to pulp. You run practically no articles now simply because
you do not have room. In the October Amazing you devoted the
whole issue to UFO articles. This was a good idea but it would have
taken barely one-third of a pulp magazine. Can you give me one
valid reason for going digest size ? How about asking the fans what
they think about pulp mags ?
Danny Pritchett
228 West Bridgeport St.
White Hall, Ill.
‘‘I just drink to be sociable ... you want to make something of it?"
129
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March AMAZING 35/
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